And by the all-resuming magic of these spells he would go everywhere on earth, while keeping one place to return to; and while driven mad with thirst and hunger to have everything, he would be peacefully content with almost nothing; and while wanting to be a famous, honoured, celebrated3 man, he would live obscurely, decently, and well, with one true love for ever. In short, he would have the whole cake of the world, and eat it, too — have adventures, labours, joys, and triumphs that would exhaust the energies of ten thousand men, and yet have spells and charms for all of it, and was sure that with these charms and spells and sorceries, all of it was his.
He would rush out of the great library into the street and take the subway into Boston. And as the train smashed and rocked along, he would sit there solemnly with his lungs expanded to the bursting point and his chest swollen4 and stuck out like the breast of a pouter pigeon, while his eyes bulged5, the veins6 on his forehead stuck out, and his face slowly turned an apoplectic8 purple as he sat there rocking with the agony of his effort.
Then the train would roar into the Central Station, and the breath would come sobbing9 and soughing out of his tortured lungs like wind out of an organ bellows10. And for several seconds, while the train was stopped there at the station (for in these magic formulas these stops at stations “did not count”) he would pant and gasp11 for breath like a fish out of water, gulping12 a new supply ravenously13 down into his lungs again, as if he thought he was being shot in a projectile14 through the terrific vacuum of unmeasured space.
Then, as the train roared out into the tunnel’s dark again, he would repeat the effort, sitting as solemn as an owl7 with his bulging15 eyes, stuck-out chest, the stolid16 apoplectic purple of his swollen face, while little children looked at him with frightened eyes, their mothers with a glance of nervous apprehension17, and the men in all the various attitudes of gape18-jawed astonishment19 and stupefaction. Yet, at that time, he saw nothing strange or curious in this mad behaviour. Rather, to hold his breath there in the tunnel’s dark, to make that mystery of rite20 and number, and to follow it with a maniacal21 devotion seemed as inevitable23 and natural to him as the very act of life, of breath itself, and he was sometimes bitterly incensed24 when people stared at him because of it.
Those faces — the secret, dark, unknown, nameless faces, the faces of the million instant casual meetings of these years, in the cars of subway trains or on the swarming25 streets — returned in later years to haunt him with a blazing, unforgettable intensity26 of vision, with an overwhelming sense of strangeness, loss and sorrow, a poignancy27 of familiarity, affection and regret, which was somehow, unbelievably, as wordless, grievous, full of an instant rending28 and unfathomable pity, as those things a man has known best and loved with all the life and passion in him, and has lost for ever — a child’s quick laugh of innocence29 and exultant30 mirth, a woman’s smile, an intonation31 in her voice, the naked, child-like look remembered in the eyes of simple, faithful people who have gone, or the snatches of the song one’s brother sang when he lay drowned in darkness and delirium32, as he died.
Why did the unknown faces of these years come back to him? For he could not forget the million obscure faces of those first years of his wandering when for the first time he walked alone the streets of a great city, a madman, a beggar, and a king, feeling the huge joy of the secret world impending34 over him with all the glory of its magic imminence35, and when each furious prowl and quest into the swarming streets of life, each furious journey through the tunnel’s depth was living with the intolerable prescience of triumph and discovery — a life more happy, fortunate, golden and complete than any life before had ever been.
He did not know. He never knew why all those obscure, nameless and unknown faces of a million strangers who passed and vanished in an instant from his sight, or whom he passed a hundred times upon the streets without a word or sign of recognition, should return to haunt him later with a sense of loss, affection, and the familiarity of utter knowledge. But he knew that they came back to him in images of unfading brightness, and that the light of time, dark time, was on them all, and that there was revealed to him, in later years, something strange and mad and lonely in the lives of all of them, which he had accepted instantly, and felt no wonder or surprise at, when he had seen them.
But these images of the past would come back in later years, and with a feeling of bitter loss and longing36 he would want to find, to see, to know them all again, to ask them what their lives had been, and what had happened to them. It was a weird37, strange, assorted38 crew — that company of memory — on whom the light of time would fall with such a lonely hue39, and how they were all got together in that magic consonance he could never tell, but he could not forget them.
One was an old man, an old man with fierce restless eyes, and bedraggled moustaches of a stained tobacco yellow who kept a lodging-house where a student that he knew had rooms, and whose house, from the basement to the attic40, was a museum to the old man’s single mania22. For that house was crowded with old tottering41 stacks of books, a mountain of junk, uncounted and uncountable, a weariness and desolation of old print, dusty, yellowed, and unreadable — and all were memoirs42 of a single man, Napoleon.
Another was a woman with a mass of henna hair, piled up in a great crown upon her head, who sat smugly, day after day, like something ageless and embalmed43, a presence deathless and hermetic to all the things that change and pass, in a glass cage before a moving-picture house on Washington Street, where people thronged44 in the dense45 and narrow line before her all the time, and glass steps and a rotating stairway went steeply up beside her cage, and flashing cascades47 of bright water foamed48 and tumbled underneath49 the glassy stairs, as the woman with piled henna hair sat always in her cage, deathless, smug, hermetic, and embalmed.
Another was an old man with a mad, fierce, handsome face and wild strewn hair of silvery white, who never wore a hat or overcoat, and who muttered through the streets of Cambridge, over the board walks of the Harvard Yard, in every kind of weather; winter was around him always, the rugged50 skies of wintry sunsets, red and harsh, the frozen desolation of old snow in street and Yard and gutter51, the harsh, interminable, weary savagery53 of grey winter.
One was a waitress in a restaurant on Tremont Street, a woman quiet, decent, and demure54 in manner, who wore faintly on her lips continually the most sensual, tender, and seductive mystery of a smile that he had ever seen on any woman’s face, who drew him back into that place to eat a thousand times, who made him think of her at night, and prowl the streets and think of her, and go back to that restaurant night after night, with a feeling of wild joy and imminent55 possession when he thought of her, and yet who said, did, promised nothing that was not sedate56, decent, and correct, or that could give him comfort, hope, or knowledge of her life.
He never got to know her, he never even knew her name, some secrecy57 and pride in him prevented him from speaking to her with familiar warmth or curiosity, but he spent thousands of good hours in thinking of her — hours filled with all the passion, dreams, and longing youth can know. The woman was no longer young; the other waitresses were younger, fresher, better-looking, had better legs and finer figures; he had no way at all of knowing the quality of her life, mind, spirit, speech — save that when he heard her speak her voice was a little husky and coarse-fibred — but that woman became the central figure of one of those glittering and impossible fantasies young men have.
It was a great legend of wealth and fame and love and glory in which this woman lived as a creature of queenly beauty, delicacy58, intelligence, and grandeur59 of the soul — and every obstacle of cold and acid fact that interposed itself between him and his vision he would instantly destroy by the wild fantastic logic60 of desire.
And because of her he prowled a hundred streets, and walked three thousand miles, and ate one thousand sirloin steaks in that one restaurant. He would wait for night to come with furious impatience61, and would feel his hands grow weak, his entrails numb1, his heart begin to pound, and his throat to swell62 with this intolerable exultancy63 of joy as he approached the restaurant. Then when he got inside, and had gone upstairs to where the restaurant was, his whole body would be stirred with such a shifting iridescence64 of passion, happiness, hunger, triumph, music, and wild exuberant65 humour that he felt he could no longer hold the swelling66 power of ecstasy67 that he felt in him.
Everything in the restaurant would become impossibly good, wonderful, and happy. The beautifully clean, crisply-waisted, and voluptuous-looking waitresses would be passing all around him bearing trays of food, the empress of his desire would pass by clean and neat and dainty, sedate and decent and demure, smiling that proud, smoke-like, faint, ghost-phantom smile of maddening tenderness and seduction, the three-piece orchestra would be playing briskly, softly, languorously68, strains of popular music, filling his heart with the swelling p?ans of another, prouder, grander, more triumphant69 music; while he listened, some robust70, handsome, clear-eyed and lusty-figured New England girls would be sitting at a table, smartly, roughly dressed, their fine legs clothed with woollen stockings, their feet shod with wide-open galoshes, looking almost ripe for love and tenderness if something could be done to them — and all of this spurred his hunger with a kind of maddening relish72, and made the food taste better than any he had ever had before.
Everything he saw would fill him with haunting sorrow, hunger, joy, the sense of triumph, glory, and delight, or with a limitless exuberance73 of wild humour. The motto of the restaurant, fixed74 on the wall in shields embossed with a flamboyant75 coat of arms, was written in a scroll76 beneath the coat of arms, as follows: “Luxuria cum Economia.” The effect these words wrought77 on his spirit was unbelievable: he could never say what he wished to say, or what he felt about them, and to say that they were “the funniest words he ever saw” would not begin to convey their real effect on him.
For what they did to him was so far beyond mere78 funniness that he had no name to give to the emotion they evoked79. But instantly, when he saw them, the wild wordless surge of a powerful and idiotic80 exuberance of humour would swell up in him and split his features with an exultant grin.
He would want to roar with laughter, to shout out and pound upon the table in his joy, but instead the wild voices of a goat-like exuberance would swell up in his throat until the people at the other tables would begin to stare at him as if he had gone mad. And later, on the streets, or in his room at night, he would suddenly remember them again, and then that idiotic, wordless, and exultant glee would burst out of him in one roar of joy.
Yet the words gave him a strange happiness and content as well. He felt a feeling of tenderness for the people who had written them, for the owners of the restaurant who had solemnly and triumphantly81 thought them out, for all the doctrines82 of “taste,” “class,” and “refinement” they evoked, for something mistaken and most pitiful that had got into our lives, and that was everywhere, something grotesquely83 wrong, ridiculous and confused that made one somehow feel a warm, a wordless affection for its victims.
But this was the reason why these things could never be forgotten — because we are so lost, so naked and so lonely in America. Immense and cruel skies bend over us, and all of us are driven on for ever and we have no home. Therefore, it is not the slow, the punctual sanded drip of the unnumbered days that we remember best, the ash of time; nor is it the huge monotone of the lost years, the unswerving schedules of the lost life and the well-known faces, that we remember best. It is a face seen once and lost for ever in a crowd, an eye that looked, a face that smiled and vanished on a passing train, it is a prescience of snow upon a certain night, the laughter of a woman in a summer street long years ago, it is the memory of a single moon seen at the pine’s dark edge in old October — and all of our lives is written in the twisting of a leaf upon a bough84, a door that opened, and a stone.
For America has a thousand lights and weathers and we walk the streets, we walk the streets for ever, we walk the streets of life alone.
It is the place of the howling winds, the hurrying of the leaves in old October, the hard clean falling to the earth of acorns85. The place of the storm-tossed moaning of the wintry mountain-side, where the young men cry out in their throats and feel the savage52 vigour86, the rude strong energies; the place also where the trains cross rivers.
It is a fabulous87 country, the only fabulous country; it is the one place where miracles not only happen, but where they happen all the time.
It is the place of exultancy and strong joy, the place of the darkened brooding air, the smell of snow; it is the place of all the fierce, the bitten colours in October, when all of the wild, sweet woods flame up; it is also the place of the cider press and the last brown oozings of the York Imperials. It is the place of the lovely girls with good jobs and the husky voices, who will buy a round of drinks; it is the place where the women with fine legs and silken underwear lie in the Pullman berth88 below you; it is the place of the dark-green snore of the Pullman cars and the voices in the night-time in Virginia.
It is the place where great boats are baying at the harbour’s mouth, where great ships are putting out to sea; it is the place where great boats are blowing in the gulf89 of night, and where the river, the dark and secret river, full of strange time, is for ever flowing by us to the sea.
The tugs90 keep baying in the river; at twelve o’clock the Berengaria moans, her lights slide gently past the piers91 beyond Eleventh Street; and in the night a tall tree falls in Old Catawba, there in the hills of home.
It is the place of autumnal moons hung low and orange at the frosty edges of the pines; it is the place of frost and silence, of the clean dry shocks and the opulence92 of enormous pumpkins93 that yellow on hard dotted earth; it is the place of the stir and feathery stumble of the hens upon their roost, the frosty, broken barking of the dogs, the great barn-shapes and solid shadows in the running sweep of the moon-whited countryside, the wailing94 whistle of the fast express. It is the place of flares95 and steamings on the tracks, and the swing and bob and tottering dance of lanterns in the yards; it is the place of dings and knellings and the sudden glare of mighty96 engines over sleeping faces in the night; it is the place of the terrific web and spread and smouldering, the distant glare of Philadelphia and the solid rumble97 of the sleepers98; it is also the place where the Transcontinental Limited is stroking eighty miles an hour across the continent and the small dark towns whip by like bullets, and there is only the fanlike stroke of the secret, immense and lonely earth again.
I have foreseen this picture many times: I will buy passage on the Fast Express.
It is the place of the wild and exultant winter’s morning and the wind, with the powdery snow, that has been howling all night long; it is the place of solitude99 and the branches of the spruce and hemlock100 piled with snow; it is the place where the Fall River boats are tethered to the wharf101, and the wild grey snow of furious, secret, and storm-whited morning whips across them. It is the place of the lodge102 by the frozen lake and the sweet breath and amorous103 flesh of sinful woman; it is the place of the tragic104 and lonely beauty of New England; it is the place of the red barn and the sound of the stabled hooves and of bright tatters of old circus posters; it is the place of the immense and pungent105 smell of breakfast, the country sausages and the ham and eggs, the smoking wheat cakes and the fragrant106 coffee, and of lone33 hunters in the frosty thickets107 who whistle to their lop-eared hounds.
Where is old Doctor Ballard now with all his dogs? He held that they were sacred, that the souls of all the dear lost dead went into them. His youngest sister’s soul sat on the seat beside him; she had long ears and her eyes were sad. Two dozen of his other cherished dead trotted108 around the buggy as he went up the hill past home. And that was eleven years ago, and I was nine years old; and I stared gravely out of the window of my father’s house at old Doctor Ballard.
It is the place of the straight stare, the cold white bellies109 and the buried lust71 of the lovely Boston girls; it is the place of ripe brainless blondes with tender lips and a flowery smell, and of the girls with shapely arms who stand on ladders picking oranges; it is also the place where large slow-bodied girls from Kansas City, with big legs and milky110 flesh, are sent East to school by their rich fathers, and there are also immense and lovely girls, with the grip of a passionate111 bear, who have such names as Neilson, Lundquist, Jorgenson, and Brandt.
I will go up and down the country, and back and forth112 across the country on the great trains that thunder over America. I will go out West where States are square; Oh, I will go to Boise, and Helena and Albuquerque. I will go to Montana and the two Dakotas and the unknown places.
It is the place of violence and sudden death; of the fast shots in the night, the club of the Irish cop, and the smell of brains and blood upon the pavement; it is the place of the small-town killings113, and the men who shoot the lovers of their wives; it is the place where the negroes slash114 with razors and the hillmen kill in the mountain meadows; it is the place of the ugly drunks and the snarling115 voices and of foul-mouthed men who want to fight; it is the place of the loud word and the foolish boast and the violent threat; it is also the place of the deadly little men with white faces and the eyes of reptiles116, who kill quickly and casually117 in the dark; it is the lawless land that feeds on murder.
“Did you know the two Lipe girls?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “They lived in Biltburn by the river, and one of them was drowned in the flood. She was a cripple, and she wheeled herself along in a chair. She was strong as a bull.” “That’s the girl,” he said.
It is the place of the crack athletes and of the runners who limber up in March; it is the place of the ten-second men and the great jumpers and vaulters; it is the place where spring comes, and the young birch trees have white and tender barks, of the thaw118 of the earth, and the feathery smoke of the trees; it is the place of the burst of grass and bud, the wild and sudden tenderness of the wilderness119, and of the crews out on the river and the coaches coming down behind them in the motor-boats, the surges rolling out behind when they are gone with heavy sudden wash. It is the place of the baseball players, and the easy lob, the soft spring smackings of the glove and mit, the crack of the bat; it is the place of the great batters120, fielders, and pitchers122, of the nigger boys and the white, drawling, shirt-sleeved men, the bleachers and the resinous123 smell of old worn wood; it is the place of Rube Waddell, the mighty untamed and ill-fated pitcher121 when his left arm is swinging like a lash46. It is the place of the fighters, the crafty124 Jewish lightweights and the mauling Italians, Leonard, Tendler, Rocky Kansas, and Dundee; it is the place where the champion looks over his rival’s shoulder with a bored expression.
I shall wake at morning in a foreign land thinking I heard a horse in one of the streets of home.
It is the place where they like to win always, and boast about their victories; it is the place of quick money and sudden loss; it is the place of the mile-long freights with their strong, solid, clanking, heavy loneliness at night, and of the silent freight of cars that curve away among raw piny desolations with their promise of new lands and unknown distances — the huge attentive125 gape of emptiness. It is the place where the bums126 come singly from the woods at sunset, the huge stillness of the water-tower, the fading light, the rails, secret and alive, trembling with the oncoming train; it is the place of the great tramps, Oklahoma Red, Fargo Pete, and the Jersey127 Dutchman, who grab fast rattlers for the Western shore; it is the place of old blown bums who come up in October skirls of dust and wind and crumpled128 newspapers and beg, with canned heat on their breaths: “Help Old McGuire: McGuire’s a good guy, kid. You’re not so tough, kid: McGuire’s your pal129, kid: How about McGuire, McGuire —?”
It is the place of the pool-room players and the drug-store boys; of the town whore and her paramour, the tough town driver; it is the place where they go to the woods on Sunday and get up among the laurel and dogwood bushes and the rhododendron blossoms; it is the place of the cheap hotels and the kids who wait with chattering130 lips while the nigger goes to get them their first woman; it is the place of the drunken college boys who spend the old man’s money and wear fur coats to the football games; it is the place of the lovely girls up North who have rich fathers, of the beautiful wives of business men.
The train broke down somewhere beyond Manassas, and I went forward along the tracks with all the other passengers. “What’s the matter?” I said to the engineer. “The eccentric strap131 is broken, son,” he said. It was a very cold day, windy and full of sparkling sun. This was the farthest north I’d ever been, and I was twelve years old and on my way to Washington to see Woodrow Wilson inaugurated. Later I could not forget the face of the engineer and the words “eccentric strap.”
It is the place of the immense and lonely earth, the place of fat ears and abundance where they grow cotton, corn, and wheat, the wine-red apples of October, and the good tobacco.
It is the place that is savage and cruel, but it is also the innocent place; it is the wild lawless place, the vital earth that is soaked with the blood of the murdered men, with the blood of the countless132 murdered men, with the blood of the unavenged and unremembered murdered men; but it is also the place of the child and laughter, where the young men are torn apart with ecstasy, and cry out in their throats with joy, where they hear the howl of the wind and the rain and smell the thunder and the soft numb spitting of the snow, where they are drunk with the bite and sparkle of the air and mad with the solar energy, where they believe in love and victory and think that they can never die.
It is the place where you come up through Virginia on the great trains in the night-time, and rumble slowly across the wide Potomac and see the morning sunlight on the nation’s dome133 at Washington, and where the fat man shaving in the Pullman washroom grunts134, “What’s this? What’s this we’re coming to — Washington?”— And the thin man glancing out of the window says, “Yep, this is Washington. That’s what it is, all right. You gettin’ off here?”— And where the fat man grunts, “Who — me? Naw — I’m goin’ on to Baltimore.” It is the place where you get off at Baltimore and find your brother waiting.
Where is my father sleeping on the land? Buried? Dead these seven years? Forgotten, rotten in the ground? Held by his own great stone? No, no! Will I say “Father” when I come to him? And will he call me “Son”? Oh, no, he’ll never see my face; we’ll never speak except to say —
It is the place of the fast approach, the hot blind smoky passage, the tragic lonely beauty of New England, and the web of Boston; the place of the mighty station there, and engines passive as great cats, the straight dense plumes135 of engine smoke, the acrid136 and exciting smell of trains and stations, and of the man-swarm passing ever in its million-footed weft, the smell of the sea in harbours and the thought of voyages — and the place of the goat-cry, the strong joy of our youth, the magic city, when we knew the most fortunate life on earth would certainly be ours, that we were twenty and could never die.
And always America is the place of the deathless and enraptured137 moments, the eye that looked, the mouth that smiled and vanished, and the word; the stone, the leaf, the door we never found and never have forgotten. And these are the things that we remember of America, for we have known all her thousand lights and weathers, and we walk the streets, we walk the streets for ever, we walk the streets of life alone.
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1
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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12
gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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32
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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33
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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34
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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35
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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36
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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37
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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38
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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39
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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40
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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41
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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42
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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43
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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44
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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46
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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47
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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48
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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49
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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50
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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51
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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52
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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53
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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54
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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55
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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56
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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57
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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58
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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59
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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60
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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61
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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62
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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63
exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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64
iridescence
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| n.彩虹色；放光彩；晕色；晕彩 | |
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65
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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66
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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67
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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68
languorously
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| adv.疲倦地，郁闷地 | |
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69
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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71
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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72
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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73
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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74
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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75
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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76
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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77
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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78
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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79
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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80
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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81
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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82
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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83
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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84
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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85
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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86
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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87
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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88
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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89
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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90
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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92
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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93
pumpkins
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| n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 )；南瓜的果肉，南瓜囊 | |
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94
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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95
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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96
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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97
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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98
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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99
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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100
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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101
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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102
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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103
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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104
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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105
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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106
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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107
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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108
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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109
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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110
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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111
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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112
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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113
killings
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| 谋杀( killing的名词复数 )； 突然发大财，暴发 | |
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114
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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115
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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116
reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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117
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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118
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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119
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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120
batters
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| n.面糊（煎料）( batter的名词复数 )；面糊（用于做糕饼）；（ 棒球） 正在击球的球员；击球员v.连续猛击( batter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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122
pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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123
resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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124
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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125
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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126
bums
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| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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127
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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128
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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129
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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130
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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131
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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132
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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133
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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134
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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135
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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136
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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137
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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