And what are they? They are the whistle-wail of one of the great American engines as it thunders through the continent at night, the sound of the voices of the city streets — those hard, loud, slangy voices, full of violence, humour, and recklessness, now stronger and more remote than the sounds of Asia — the sounds that come up from the harbour of Manhattan in the night — that magnificent and thrilling music of escape, mystery, and joy, with the mighty6 orchestration of the transatlantics, the hoarse7 little tugs8, the ferry boats and lighters9, those sounds that well up from the gulf10 and dark immensity of night and that pierce the entrails of the listener.
For this will always be one of the immortal11 and living things about the land, this will be an eternal and unchanging fact about that city whose only permanence is change: there will always be the great rivers flowing around it in the darkness, the rivers that have bounded so many nameless lives, those rivers which have moated in so many changes, which have girdled the wilderness and so much hard, brilliant, and sensational12 living, so much pain, beauty, ugliness, so much lust13, murder, corruption14, love, and wild exultancy15.
They’ll build great engines yet, and grander towers, but always the rivers run, in the day, in the night, in the dark, draining immensely their imperial tides out of the wilderness, washing and flowing by the coasts of the fabulous16 city, by all the little ticking sounds of time, by all the million lives and deaths of the city. Always the rivers run, and always there will be great ships upon the tide, always great horns are baying at the harbour’s mouth, and in the night a thousand men have died while the river, always the river, the dark eternal river, full of strange secret time, washing the city’s stains away, thickened and darkened by its dumpings, is flowing by us, by us to the sea.
He awakes at morning in a foreign land and he thinks of home. He cannot rest, his heart is wild with pain and loneliness, he sleeps, but then he knows he sleeps, he hears the dark and secret spell of time about him; in ancient towns, thick tumbling chimes of the cathedral bells are thronging17 through the dark, but through the passages of his diseased and unforgetful sleep the sounds and memory of America make way: now it is almost dawn, a horse has turned into a street and in America there is the sound of wheels, the lonely clop-clop of the hooves upon deserted18 pavements, silence, then the banging clatter19 of a can.
He awakes at morning in a foreign land, he draws his breath in labour in the wool-soft air of Europe: the wool-grey air is all about him like a living substance; it is in his heart, his stomach, and his entrails; it is in the slow and vital movements of the people; it soaks down from the sodden20 skies into the earth, into the heavy buildings, into the limbs and hearts and brains of living men. It soaks into the spirit of the wanderer; his heart is dull with the grey weariness of despair, it aches with hunger for the wilderness, the howling of great winds, the bite and sparkle of the clear, cold air, the buzz, the tumult21 and the wild exultancy. The wet, woollen air is all about him, and there is no hope. It was there before William the Conqueror22; it was there before Clovis and Charles “the Hammer”; it was there before Attila; it was there before Hengist and Horsa; it was there before Vercingetorix and Julius Agricola.
It was there now; it will always be there. They had it in Merry England and they had it in Gay Paree; and they were seldom merry, and they were rarely gay. The wet, woollen air is over Munich; it is over Paris; it is over Rouen and Madame Bovary; it soaks into England; it gets into boiled mutton and the Brussels sprouts23; it gets into Hammersmith on Sunday; it broods over Bloomsbury and the private hotels and the British Museum; it soaks into the land of Europe and keeps the grass green. It has always been there; it will always be there. His eyes are mad and dull; he cannot sleep without the hauntings of phantasmal memory behind the eyes; his brain is overstretched and weary, it gropes ceaselessly around the prison of the skull24, it will not cease.
The years are walking in his brain, his father’s voice is sounding in his ears, and in the pulses of his blood the tom-tom’s beat. His living dust is stored with memory: two hundred million men are walking in his bones; he hears the howling of the wind around forgotten eaves; he cannot sleep. He walks in midnight corridors; he sees the wilderness, the moon-drenched forests; he comes to clearings in the moonlit stubble, he is lost, he has never been here, yet he is at home. His sleep is haunted with the dreams of time; wires throb25 above him in the whiteness, they make a humming in the noonday heat.
The rails are laid across eight hundred miles of golden wheat, the rails are wound through mountains, they curve through clay-yellow cuts, they enter tunnels, they are built up across the marshes26, they hug the cliff and follow by the river’s bank, they cross the plains with dust and thunder, and they leap through flatness and the dull scrub-pine to meet the sea.
Then he awakes at morning in a foreign land and thinks of home.
For we have awaked at morning in a foreign land and heard the bitter curse of their indictment27, and we know what we know, and it will always be the same.
“One time!” their voices cried, leaning upon a bar the bitter weight of all their discontent. “One time! I’ve been back one time — just once in seven years,” they said, “and Jesus! that was plenty. One time was enough! To hell with that damned country! What have they got now but a lot of cheap spaghetti joints28 and skyscrapers29?” they said. “If you want a drink, you sneak31 down three back-alleyways, get the once-over from a couple of exprize-fighters, and then plank32 down a dollar for a shot of varnish33 that would rot the stomach out of a goat! . . . And the women!”— the voices rose here with infuriated scorn —“What a nice lot of cold-blooded gold-digging bastards34 THEY’VE turned out to be! . . . I spent thirty dollars taking one of ’em to a show, and to a night-club afterward35! When bedtime came do you think I got anything out of it? . . . ‘You may kiss my little hand,’ she says. . . . ‘You may kiss my little — that’s what you may do,’” the voices snarled36 with righteous bitterness. “When I asked her if she was goin’ to come through she started to yell for the cops! . . . A woman who tried to pull one like that over here would get sent to Siberia! . . . A nice country, I don’t think! . . . Now, get this! ME, I’m a Frenchman, see!” the voice said with a convincing earnestness. “These guys know how to LIVE, see! This is my country where I belong, see! . . . Johnny, luh même chose pour mwah et m’seer! . . . Fill ’em up again, kid.”
“Carpen-TEER!” the voices then rose jeeringly37, in true accents of French pugnacity38. “Sure, I’m a Frenchman — but Carpen-TEER! Where do yuh get that stuff? Christ! Dempsey could ‘a’ took that frog the best day that he ever saw! . . . An accident!” the voices yelled. “Whattya mean — an accident? Didn’t I see the whole thing with my own eyes? Wasn’t I back there then? . . . Wasn’t I talkin’ t’ Jack39 himself an hour after the fight was over? . . . An accident! Jesus! The only accident was that he let him last four rounds. ‘I could have taken him in the first if I wanted to,’ Jack says to me. . . . Sure, I’m a Frenchman!” the voice said with belligerent40 loyalty41. “But CarpenTEER! Jesus! Where do you get that stuff?”
And, brother, I have heard the voices you will never hear, discussing the graces of a life more cultured than any you will ever know — and I know and I know, and yet it is still the same.
Bitterly, bitterly, Boston one time more! the flying leaf, the broken cloud —“I think,” said they, “that we will live here now. I think,” they said, “that we are running down to Spain next week, so Francis can do a little writing. . . . And really,” their gay yet cultivated tones continued, “it’s wonderful what you can do here if you only have a little money. . . . YES, my dear!” their refined accents continued in a tone of gay conviction. “It’s really quite incredible, you know. . . . I happen to know of a real honest-to-goodness chateau42 near Blois that can be had for something less than $7000! . . . It’s all rather incredible, you know,” those light, half-English tones went on, “when you consider what it takes to live in Brookline! . . . Francis has always felt that he would like to do a little writing, and I feel somehow the atmosphere is better here for all that sort of thing — it really is, you know. Don’t you think so?” said those gay and cultivated tones of Boston which you, my brother, never yet have heard. “And after all,” those cultivated tones went on in accents of a droll43 sincerity44, “you see all the people here you really CARE to see, I MEAN, you know! They all come to Paris at one time or another — I MEAN, the trouble really is in getting a little time alone for yourself. . . . Or do you find it so?” the voices suavely45, lightly, asked. . . . “Oh, look! look at that — there!” they cried with jubilant elation46, “I mean, that boy and his girl there, walking along with their arms around each other! . . . Don’t you just a-do-o-re it? . . . Isn’t it too MA-A-RVELLOUS?” those refined and silvery tones went on with patriotic47 tenderness. “I mean, there’s something so perfectly48 sweet and unselfconscious about it all!” the voices said with all the cultivated earnestness of Boston! “Now WHERE? — where? — would you see anything like that at home?” the voices said triumphantly49.
(Seldom in Brookline, lady. Oh, rarely, seldom, almost never in the town of Brookline, lady. But on the Esplanade — did you ever go out walking on the Esplanade at night-time, in the hot and sultry month of August, lady? They are not Frenchmen, lady: they are all Jews and Irish and Italians, lady, but the noise of their kissing is like the noise the wind makes through a leafy grove50 — it is like the great hooves of a hundred thousand cavalry51 being pulled out of the marshy52 places of the earth, dear lady.)
“ . . . I MEAN— these people really understand that sort of thing so much better than we do. . . . They’re so much SIMPLER about it. . . . I mean, so much more graceful53 with that kind of thing. . . . Il faut un peu de sentiment, n’est-ce pas? . . . Or do you think so?” said those light, those gay, those silvery, and half-English tones of cultivated Boston, which you, my brother, never yet have heard.
(I got you, lady. That was French. I know. . . . But if I felt your leg, if I began by fondling gracefully54 your leg, if in a somewhat graceful Gallic way I felt your leg, and said, “Chérie! Petite chérie!”— would you remember, lady, this is Paris?)
Oh, bitterly, bitterly, Boston one time more: their silvery voices speak an accent you will never know, and of their loins is marble made, but brother, there are corn-haired girls named Neilsen out in Minnesota, and the blond thighs55 of the Lundquist girl could break a bullock’s back.
Oh, bitterly, bitterly, Boston one time more: the French have little ways about them that we do not have, but, brother, they’re still selling cradles down in Georgia, and in New Orléans their eyes are dark, their white teeth bite you to the bone.
Oh, bitterly, bitterly, Boston, one time more, and of their flesh is cod-fish made. Big brother’s still waiting for you with his huge, red fist, behind the barn up in the State of Maine, and they’re still having shotgun marriages at home.
Oh, brother, there are voices you will never hear — ancestral voices prophesying56 war, my brother, and rare and radiant voices that you know not of, as they have read us into doom57. The genteel voices of Oxenford broke once like chimes of weary, unenthusiastic bells across my brain, speaking to me compassionately59 its judgment61 on our corrupted62 lives, gently dealing63 with the universe, my brother, gently and without labour — gently, brother, gently, it dealt with all of us, with easy condescension64 and amused disdain65.
“I’m afraid, old boy,” the genteel voices of Oxenford remarked, “you’re up against it over th?h. . . . I really am. . . . Th?h’s no peace th? faw the individual any longah,”— the genteel voice went on, unindividual brother. “Obviously,” that tolerant voice instructed me, “obviously, th?h can be no cultuah in a country so completely lackin’ in tradition as is yo?hs. . . . It’s all so objective — if you see what I main — th?h’s no place left faw the innah life,” it said, oh, outward brother! “ . . . We Europeans have often obs?hved (it’s VERY curious, you know) that the AMERican is capable of any real feelin’— it seems quite impawsible faw him to distinguish between true emotion an’ sentimentality — an’ he invayably chooses the lattah! . . . CURIOUS, ISN’T IT? — or do you think so, brother? Of co’se, th?h is yo?h beastly dreadful sex-prawblem. . . . Yo?h women! . . . Oh, deah, deah! . . . Perhaps we’d bettah say no moah . . . but, th?h you AH!”— right in the eye, my brother. “Yo?h country is a matriahky, my deah fellah . . . it really is, you know.” . . . if you can follow us, dear brother. “The women have the men in a state of complete subjection . . . the male is rapidly becomin’ moah sexless an’ emasculated”— that genteel voice of doom went on —“No! — Decidedly you have quite a prawblem befoah you. . . . Obviously th?h can be no cultuah while such a condition puhsists. . . . THAT is why when my friends say to me, ‘You ought to see AMERICA, . . . you really ought, you know.’ . . . I say, ‘No, thanks. . . . If you don’t mind, I’d rathah not. . . . I think I’ll stay at home . . . I’m sorry,’” the compassionate60 tones of Oxenford went on, “but that’s the way I feel — it really is, you know. . . . Of co’se, I know you couldn’t undahstand my feelin’— faw aftah all, you ah a Yank — but th?h you ah! Sorry!” it said regretfully, as it spoke66 its courteous67 but inexorable judgments68 of eternal exile, brother, and removed for ever the possibility of your ever hearing it. “But that’s the way I feel! I hope you don’t mind,” the voice said gently, with compassion58.
No, sir, I don’t mind. We don’t mind, he, she, it, or they don’t mind. Nobody minds, sir, nobody minds. Because, just as you say, sir, oceans are between us, seas have sundered69 us, there is a magic in you that we cannot fathom70 — a light, a flame, a glory — an impalpable, indefinable, incomprehensible, undeniable something or other, something which I can never understand or measure because — just as you say, sir — with such compassionate regret, I am-I am-a Yank.
’Tis true, my brother, we are Yanks. Oh, ’tis true, ’tis true! I am a Yank! Yet, wherefore Yank, good brother? Hath not a Yank ears? Hath not a Yank lies, truths, bowels71 of mercy, fears, joys, and lusts72? Is he not warmed by the same sun, washed by the same ocean, rotted by the same decay, and eaten by the same worms as a German is? If you kill him, does he not die? If you sweat him, does he not stink73? If you lie with his wife or his mistress, does she not whore, lie, fornicate and betray, even as a Frenchman’s does? If you strip him, is he not naked as a Swede? Is his hide less white than Baudelaire’s? Is his breath more foul74 than the King of Spain’s? Is his belly75 bigger, his neck fatter, his face more hoggish76, and his eye more shiny than a Munich brewer’s? Will he not cheat, rape30, thieve, whore, curse, hate, and murder like any European? Aye — Yank! But wherefore, wherefore Yank — good brother?
Brother, have we come then from a fated stock? Augured77 from birth, announced by two dark angels, named in our mother’s womb? And for what? For what? Fatherless, to grope our feelers on the sea’s dark bed, among the polyped squirms, the blind sucks and crawls and sea-valves of the brain, loaded with memory that will not die? To cry our love out in the wilderness, to wake always in the night, smiting78 the pillow in some foreign land, thinking for ever of the myriad79 sights and sounds of home?
“While Paris Sleeps!”— By God! while Paris sleeps, to wake and walk and not to sleep; to wake and walk and sleep and wake, and sleep again, seeing dawn come at the window-square that cast its wedge before our glazed80, half-sleeping eyes, seeing soft, hated foreign light, and breathing soft, dull languid air that could not bite and tingle81 up the blood, seeing legend and lie and fable82 wither83 in our sight as we saw what we saw, knew what we knew.
Sons of the lost and lonely fathers, sons of the wanderers, children of hardy84 loins, the savage85 earth, the pioneers, what had we to do with all their bells and churches? Could we feed our hunger on portraits of the Spanish king? Brother, for what? For what? To kill the giant of loneliness and fear, to slay86 the hunger that would not rest, that would not give us rest.
Of wandering for ever, and the earth again. Brother, for what? For what? For what? For the wilderness, the immense and lonely land. For the unendurable hunger, the unbearable87 ache, the incurable88 loneliness. For the exultancy whose only answer is the wild goat-cry. For a million memories, ten thousand sights and sounds and shapes and smells and names of things that only we can know.
For what? For what? Not for a nation. Not for a people, not for an empire, not for a thing we love or hate.
For what? For a cry, a space, an ecstasy89. For a savage and nameless hunger. For a living and intolerable memory that may not for a second be forgotten, since it includes all the moments of our lives, includes all we do and are. For a living memory; for ten thousand memories; for a million sights and sounds and moments; for something like nothing else on earth; for something which possesses us.
For something under our feet, and around us and over us; something that is in us and part of us, and proceeds from us, that beats in all the pulses of our blood.
Brother, for what?
First for the thunder of imperial names, the names of men and battles, the names of places and great rivers, the mighty names of the States. The name of The Wilderness; and the names of Antietam, Chancellorsville, Shiloh, Bull Run, Fredericksburg, Cold Harbour, the Wheat Fields, Ball’s Bluff90, and the Devil’s Den3; the names of Cowpens, Brandywine, and Saratoga; of Death Valley, Chickamauga, and the Cumberland Gap. The names of the Nantahalahs, the Bad Lands, the Painted Desert, the Yosemite, and the Little Big Horn; the names of Yancey and Cabarrus counties; and the terrible name of Hatteras.
Then, for the continental91 thunder of the States: the names of Montana, Texas, Arizona, Colorado, Michigan, Maryland, Virginia, and the two Dakotas; the names of Oregon and Indiana, of Kansas and the rich Ohio; the powerful name of Pennsylvania, and the name of Old Kentucky; the undulance of Alabama; the names of Florida and North Carolina.
In the red-oak thickets92, at the break of day, long hunters lay for bear — the rattle93 of arrows in laurel leaves, the war-cries round the painted buttes, and the majestical names of the Indian nations: the Pawnees, the Algonquins, the Iroquois, the Comanches, the Blackfeet, the Seminoles, the Cherokees, the Sioux, the Hurons, the Mohawks, the Navajos, the Utes, the Omahas, the Onondagas, the Chippewas, the Crees, the Chickasaws, the Arapahoes, the Catawbas, the Dakotas, the Apaches, the Croatans, and the Tuscaroras; the names of Powhatan and Sitting Bull; and the name of the great Chief, Rain–In-The–Face. Of wandering for ever, and the earth again: in red-oak thickets, at the break of day, long hunters lay for bear. The arrows rattle in the laurel leaves, and the elm-roots thread the bones of buried lovers. There have been war-cries on the Western trails, and on the plains the gun-stock rusts94 upon a handful of bleached95 bones. The barren earth? Was no love living in the wilderness?
The rails go westward96 in the dark. Brother, have you seen starlight on the rails? Have you heard the thunder of the fast express?
Of wandering for ever, and the earth again — the names of the mighty rails that bind97 the nation, the wheeled thunder of the names that net the continent: the Pennsylvania, the union Pacific, the Santa Fé, the Baltimore and Ohio, the Chicago and Northwestern, the Southern, the Louisiana and Northern, the Seaboard Air Line, the Chicago, Milwaukee and Saint Paul, the Lackawanna, the New York, New Haven98 and Hartford, the Florida East Coast, the Rock Island, and the Denver and Rio Grande.
Brother, the names of the engines, the engineers, and the sleeping-cars: the great engines of the Pacific type, the articulated Mallets with three sets of eight-yoked driving-wheels, the 400-ton thunderbolts with J. T. Cline, T. J. McRae, and the demon99 hawk-eyes of H. D. Campbell on the rails.
The names of the great tramps who range the nation on the fastest trains: the names of the great tramps Oklahoma Red, Fargo Pete, Dixie Joe, Iron Mike, The Frisco Kid, Nigger Dick, Red Chi, Ike the Kike, and The Jersey100 Dutchman.
By the waters of life, by time, by time, Lord Tennyson stood among the rocks, and stared. He had long hair, his eyes were deep and sombre, and he wore a cape5; he was a poet, and there was magic and mystery in his touch, for he had heard the horns of Elfland faintly blowing. And by the waters of life, by time, by time, Lord Tennyson stood among the cold, grey rocks, and commanded the sea to break — break — break! And the sea broke, by the waters of life, by time, by time, as Lord Tennyson commanded it to do, and his heart was sad and lonely as he watched the stately ships (of the Hamburg–American Packet Company, fares forty-five dollars and up, first-class) go on to their haven under the hill, and Lord Tennyson would that his heart could utter the thoughts that arose in him.
By the waters of life, by time, by time: the names of the mighty rivers, the alluvial101 gluts102, the drains of the continent, the throats that drink America (Sweet Thames, flow gently till I end my song). The names of the men who pass, and the myriad names of the earth that abides103 for ever: the names of the men who are doomed104 to wander, and the name of that immense and lonely land on which they wander, to which they return, in which they will be buried — America! The immortal earth which waits for ever, the trains that thunder on the continent, the men who wander, and the women who cry out, “Return!”
Finally, the names of the great rivers that are flowing in the darkness (Sweet Thames, flow gently till I end my song.)
By the waters of life, by time, by time: the names of great mouths, the mighty maws, the vast, wet, coiling, never-glutted and unending snakes that drink the continent. Where, sons of men, and in what other land will you find others like them, and where can you match the mighty music of their names? — The Monongahela, the Colorado, the Rio Grande, the Columbia, the Tennessee, the Hudson (Sweet Thames!); the Kennebec, the Rappahannock, the Delaware, the Penobscot, the Wabash, the Chesapeake, the Swannanoa, the Indian River, the Niagara (Sweet Afton!); the Saint Lawrence, the Susquehanna, the Tombigbee, the Nantahala, the French Broad, the Chattahoochee, the Arizona, and the Potomac (Father Tiber!)— these are a few of their princely names, these are a few of their great, proud, glittering names, fit for the immense and lonely land that they inhabit.
Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber! You’d only be a suckling in that mighty land! And as for you, sweet Thames, flow gently till I end my song: flow gently, gentle Thames, be well-behaved, sweet Thames, speak softly and politely, little Thames, flow gently till I end my song.
By the waters of life, by time, by time, and of the yellow cat that smites105 the nation, of the belly of the snake that coils across the land — of the terrible names of the rivers in flood, the rivers that foam106 and welter in the dark, that smash the levees, that flood the lowlands for two thousand miles, that carry the bones of the cities seaward on their tides: of the awful names of the Tennessee, the Arkansas, the Missouri, the Mississippi, and even the little mountain rivers, brothers, in the season of the floods.
Delicately they dive for Greeks before the railway station: the canoe glides107 gently through the portals of the waiting-room (for whites). Full fathom five the carcass of old man Lype is lying (of his bones is coral made) and delicately they dive for luncheon-room Greeks before the railway station.
Brother, what fish are these? The floatage of sunken rooms, the sodden bridal-veils of poverty, the slime of mined parlour plush, drowned faces in the family album; and the blur108 of long-drowned eyes, blurred109 features, whited, bloated flesh.
Delicately they dive for Greeks before the railway station. The stern, good, half-drowned faces of the brothers Trade and Mark survey the tides. Cardui! Miss Lillian Leitzell twists upon one arm above the flood; the clown, half-sunken to his waist, swims upward out of swirling110 yellow; the tiger bares his teeth above the surges of a river he will never drink. The ragged111 tatters of the circus posters are plastered on soaked boards. And delicately they dive for Greeks before the railway station.
Have we not seen them, brother?
For what are we, my brother? We are a phantom112 flare113 of grieved desire, the ghostling and phosphoric flicker114 of immortal time, a brevity of days haunted by the eternity115 of the earth. We are an unspeakable utterance116, an insatiable hunger, an unquenchable thirst; a lust that bursts our sinews, explodes our brains, sickens and rots our insides, and rips our hearts asunder117. We are a twist of passion, a moment’s flame of love and ecstasy, a sinew of bright blood and agony, a lost cry, a music of pain and joy, a haunting of brief, sharp hours, an almost captured beauty, a demon’s whisper of unbodied memory. We are the dupes of time.
For, brother, what are we?
We are the sons of our father, whose face we have never seen, we are the sons of our father, whose voice we have never heard, we are the sons of our father, to whom we have cried for strength and comfort in our agony, we are the sons of our father, whose life like ours was lived in solitude118 and in the wilderness, we are the sons of our father, to whom only can we speak out the strange, dark burden of our heart and spirit, we are the sons of our father, and we shall follow the print of his foot for ever.
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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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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lighters
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| n.打火机，点火器( lighter的名词复数 ) | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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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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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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21
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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22
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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23
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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24
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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25
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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26
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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27
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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28
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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29
skyscrapers
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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30
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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31
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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32
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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33
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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34
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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35
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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36
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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37
jeeringly
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| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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38
pugnacity
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| n.好斗，好战 | |
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39
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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40
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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41
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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42
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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43
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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44
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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45
suavely
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46
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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47
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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48
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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50
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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51
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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52
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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53
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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54
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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55
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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56
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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57
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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58
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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59
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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60
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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61
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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62
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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63
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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64
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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65
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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66
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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67
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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68
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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69
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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71
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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72
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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73
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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74
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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75
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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76
hoggish
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| adj.贪婪的 | |
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77
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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78
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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79
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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80
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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81
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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82
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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83
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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84
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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85
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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86
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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87
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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88
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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89
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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90
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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91
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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92
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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93
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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94
rusts
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| n.铁锈( rust的名词复数 )；（植物的）锈病，锈菌v.（使）生锈( rust的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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96
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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97
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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98
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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99
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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100
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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101
alluvial
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| adj.冲积的；淤积的 | |
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102
gluts
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| n.供过于求( glut的名词复数 )；过量供应；放纵；尽量v.吃得过多( glut的第三人称单数 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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103
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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104
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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105
smites
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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107
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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108
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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109
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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110
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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111
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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112
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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113
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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114
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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115
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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116
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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117
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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118
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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