At first there was only the calm endlessness of the evening sea, the worn headlands of Europe, and the land, with its rich, green slopes, its striped patterns of minutely cultivated earth, its ancient fortresses3 and its town — the town of Cherbourg — which, from this distance, lay like a sold pattern of old chalk at the base of the coastal4 indentation.
Westward5, a little to the south, against the darkening bulk of the headland, a long riband of smoke, black and low, told the position of the ship. She was approaching fast, her bulk widened: she had been a dot, a smudge, a shape — a tiny, hardly noticed point in the calm and immense geography of evening. Now she was there, sliding gently in beyond the ancient breakwater, inhabiting and dominating the universe with the presence of her 60,000 tons, so that the vast setting of sky and sea and earth, in which formerly6 she had been only an inconspicuous but living mark, were now a background for her magnificence.
At this very moment of her arrival the sun rested upon the western wave like a fading coal: its ancient light fell over sea and land without violence or heat, with a remote, unearthly glow that had the delicate tinging7 of old bronze. Then, swiftly, the sun sank down into the sea, the uninhabited sky now burned with a fierce, an almost unbearable8 glory; the sun’s old light had faded; and the ship was there outside the harbour, sliding softly through the water now, and quartering, in slow turn, upon the land as she came up for anchor.
The sheer wall of her iron plates scarcely seemed to move at all now in the water; it was as if she were fixed9 and foundered10 there among the tides, as implacable as the headlands of the coast; yet, over her solid bows the land was wheeling slowly. Water foamed11 noisily from her sides in thick, tumbling columns: the sea-gulls swarmed13 around her, fluttering greedily and heavily to the water with their creaking and unearthly clamour. Then her anchors rushed out of her and she stood still.
Meanwhile the tenders, bearing the passengers who were going to board the ship, had put out from the town even before the ship’s arrival and were now quite near. They had, in fact, cruised slowly for some time about the outer harbour, for the ship was late and the commander had wirelessed asking that there be as little delay as possible when he arrived.
Now the light faded on the land: the fierce, hard brilliance14 of the western sky, full of bright gold and ragged15 flame, had melted to an orange afterglow, the subtle, grapy bloom of dusk was melting across the land; the town, far off, was half immersed in it, its moving shadow stole across the fields and slopes, it moved upon the waters like a weft. Above the land the sky was yet full of light — of that strange, phantasmal light of evening which reveals itself to people standing16 in the dusk below without touching17 them with any of its radiance: the material and physical property of light seems to have been withdrawn18 from it, and it remains19 briefly20 in the sky, without substance or any living power, like the ghost of light, its soul, its spirit.
In these late skies of France, this late, evening light of waning21 summer had in it a quality that was high and sad, remote and full of classic repose22 and dignity. Beneath it, it was as if one saw people grave and beautiful move slowly homeward through long avenues of planted trees: the light was soft, lucent, delicately empearled — and all great labour was over, all strong joy and hate and love had ended, all wild desire and hope, all maddening of the flesh and heart and brain, the fever and the tumult23 and the fret24; and the grave-eyed women in long robes walked slowly with cut flowers in their arms among the glades25 of trees, and night had come, and they would go to the wood no more.
Now, in this light, all over the land of France the men were coming from the fields: they had used preciously the last light of day, summer was almost over, the fields were mown, the hay was raked and stacked, and in a thousand places, along the Rhine, and along the Marne, in Burgundy, in Touraine, in Provence, the wains were lumbering26 slowly down the roads.
In the larger towns the nervous and swarming27 activity of evening had begun: the terraces of the cafés were uncomfortably crowded with noisy people, the pavements were thronged28 with a chattering29 and gesticulating tide, the streets were loud with traffic, the clatter30 of trams, the heavy grinding of buses, the spiteful little horns of innumerable small taxis. But over all, over the opulence31 of the mown fields and the untidy and distressful32 throngings of the towns, hung this high, sad light of evening.
A stranger, a visitor from some newer and more exultant33 earth — an American, perhaps — had he seen this coast thus for the first time, might have imagined the land as inhabited by a race far different from the one that really lived here: he would have felt the opulent austerity of this earth under its dying light, and he would have been deeply troubled by it.
For such a visitor, disturbed by the profound and subtle melancholy34 of this scene, for which his own experience had given him no adequate understanding or preparation, because it was steeped in peace without hope, in beauty without joy, in tranquil35 and brooding resignation without exultancy36, the sight of the ship, as she lay now, immense and immovable at her anchor, would have pierced him suddenly with a thrill of victory, a sudden renewal37 of his faith and hope, a belief in the happy destiny of life.
She lay there, an alien presence in those waters; she had the reality of magic, the reality that is so living and magnificent that it seems unreal. She was miraculous38 and true — as one looked at her, settled like some magic luminosity upon that mournful coast, a strong cry of exultancy rose up in one’s throat: the sight of the ship was as if a man’s mistress had laid her hand upon his loins.
The ship was now wholly anchored: she lay there in the water with the living stillness of all objects that were made to move. Although entirely39 motionless, outwardly as fixed and permanent as any of the headlands of the coast, the story of her power and speed was legible in every line. She glowed and pulsed with the dynamic secret of life, and although her great sides towered immense and silent as a cliff, although the great plates of her hull40 seemed to reach down and to be founded in the sea’s bed, and only the quietly flowing waters seemed to move and eddy41 softly at her sides, she yet had legible upon her the story of a hundred crossings, the memory of strange seas, of suns and moons and many different lights, the approach of April on far coasts, the change of wars and histories, and the completed dramas of all her voyages, charactered by the phantoms42 of many thousand passengers, the life, the hate, the love, the bitterness, the jealousy43, the intrigue44 of six-day worlds, each one complete and separate in itself, which only a ship can have, which only the sea can bound, which only the earth can begin or end.
She glowed with the radiance of all her brilliant and luminous45 history; and besides this, she was literally46 a visitant from a new world. The stranger from the new world who saw the ship would also instantly have seen this. She had been built several years after the war and was entirely a product of European construction, engineering, navigation, and diplomacy47. But her spirit, the impulse that communicated itself in each of her lines, was not European, but American. It is Europeans, for the most part, who have constructed these great ships, but without America they have no meaning. These ships are alive with the supreme48 ecstasy49 of the modern world, which is the voyage to America. There is no other experience that is remotely comparable to it, in its sense of joy, its exultancy, its drunken and magnificent hope which, against reason and knowledge, soars into a heaven of fabulous50 conviction, which believes in the miracle and sees it invariably achieved.
In this soft, this somewhat languid air, the ship glowed like an immense and brilliant jewel. All of her lights were on, they burned row by row straight across her 900 feet of length, with the small, hard twinkle of cut gems51: it was as if the vast, black cliff of her hull, which strangely suggested the glittering night-time cliff of the fabulous city that was her destination, had been sown with diamonds.
And above this, her decks were ablaze52 with light. Her enormous superstructure with its magnificent frontal sweep, her proud breast which was so full of power and speed, her storeyed decks and promenades53 as wide as city streets, the fabulous variety and opulence of her public rooms, her vast lounges and salons54, her restaurants, grills55, and cafés, her libraries, writing-rooms, ballrooms56, swimming-pools, her imperial suites57 with broad beds, private decks, sitting-rooms, gleaming baths — all of this, made to move upon the stormy seas, leaning against eternity58 and the grey welter of the Atlantic at twenty-seven knots an hour, tenanted by the ghosts, impregnated by the subtle perfumes of thousands of beautiful and expensive women, alive with the memory of the silken undulance of their long backs, with the naked, living velvet59 of their shoulders as they paced down the decks at night — all of this, with the four great funnels60 that in the immense drive and energy of their slant61 were now cut sharp and dark against the evening sky, burned with a fierce, exultant vitality62 in the soft melancholy of this coast.
The ship struck joy into the spinal63 marrow64. In her intense reality she became fabulous, a visitant from another world, a creature monstrous65 and magical with life, a stranger, seeming strange, to these melancholy coasts, for she was made to glitter in the hard, sharp air of a younger, more exultant land.
She was made also to quarter on the coasts of all the earth, to range powerfully on the crest67 and ridge68 of the globe, sucking continents towards her, devouring69 sea and land; she was made to enter European skies like some stranger from another world, to burn strangely and fabulously70 in the dull, grey air of Europe, to pulse and glow under the soft, wet European sky. But she was only a marvellous stranger there; she was a bright, jewelled thing; she came definitely, indubitably, wonderfully from but one place on earth, and in only that one place could she be fully66 seen and understood, in only that one place could she slide in to her appointed and imperial setting.
That place was America: that place was the reaches to the American coast: that place was the approaches to the American continent. That place, finally and absolutely, was the port whither she was bound — the fabulous rock of life, the proud, masted city of the soaring towers, which was flung with a lion’s port into the maw of ocean. And as the Americans who were now approaching the ship in the puffing71 little tender saw this mark upon her, they looked at her and knew her instantly; they felt a qualm along their loins, their flesh stirred.
“Oh, look!” cried a woman suddenly, pointing to the ship whose immense and glittering side now towered over them. “Isn’t that lovely! God, but she’s big! How do you suppose we’re ever going to find the ocean?”
“The first thing I’m going to do, darling, is find my bed,” said her companion, in a tone of languorous72 weariness. A tall and sensual-looking Jewess, she was seated on a pile of baggage, smoking a cigarette, her long legs indolently crossed: indifferently, with smouldering and arrogant73 glances, she surveyed the crowd of passengers on the tender.
The other woman could not be still: her rosy74 face was burning with the excitement of the voyage, she kept slipping the ring on and off her finger nervously75, and moving around at her brisk little step among the heaped-up piles of baggage.
“Oh, here!” she cried out suddenly in great excitement, pointing to a bag buried at the bottom of one of the piles. “Oh, here!” she cried again to the general public. “This one’s mine! Where are the others? Can’t you find the others for me?” she said in a sharp, protesting voice to one of the porters, a little, brawny76 man with sprouting77 moustaches. “Hey?” she said, lifting her small hand complainingly to her ear as he answered her in a torrent78 of reassuring79 French. She turned to her companion protestingly:
“I can’t get them to do anything. They don’t pay a bit of attention to what I say! I can’t find my trunk and two of my bags. I think it’s the most dreadful thing I ever heard of. Don’t you? Hey?” again she lifted her little hand to her ear, for she was somewhat deaf: her small, rosy face was crimson80 with excitement and earnestness — in her tone, her manner, her indignation, there was something irresistibly81 comic, and suddenly her companion began to laugh.
“Oh, Esther!” she said. “Lord!” and then paused abruptly82, as if there were no more to say.
Esther was fair; she was fair; she had dove’s eyes.
Now the woman’s lovely face, like a rarer, richer, and more luminous substance, was glowing among all the other faces of the travellers, which, as the tender circled and came in close below the ship, were fixed with a single intentness upon the great hull that loomed83 over them with its overpowering immensity.
The great ship cast over them all her mighty84 spell: most of these people had made many voyages, yet the great ship caught them up again in her magic glow, she possessed85 and thrilled them with her presence as if they had been children. The travellers stood there silent and intent as the little boat slid in beside the big one, they stood there with uplifted faces; and for a moment it was strange and sad to see them thus, with loneliness and longing87 in their eyes. Their faces made small, lifted whitenesses; they shone in the gathering88 dark with a luminous glimmer89: there was something small, naked and lonely in the glimmer of those faces, around them was the immense eternity of sea and death. They heard time.
For if, as men be dying, they can pluck one moment from the darkness into which their sense is sinking, if one moment in all the dark and mysterious forest should then live, it might well be the memory of such a moment as this which, although lacking in logical meaning, burns for an instant in the dying memory as a summary and a symbol of man’s destiny on earth. The fading memory has forgotten what was said then by the passengers, the thousand tones and shadings of the living moment are forgotten, but drenched90 in the strange, brown light of time, the scene glows again for an instant with an intent silence: darkness has fallen upon the eternal earth, the great ship like a monstrous visitant blazes on the waters, and on the tender the faces of the travellers are lifted up like flowers in a kind of rapt and mournful ecstasy — they are weary of travel, they have wandered in strange cities among strange tongues and faces, and they have left not even the print of their foot in any town.
Their souls are naked and alone, and they are strangers upon the earth, and many of them long for a place where those weary of travel may find rest, where those who are tired of searching may cease to search, where there will be peace and quiet living, and no desire. Where shall the weary find peace? Upon what shore will the wanderer come home at last? When shall it cease — the blind groping, the false desires, the fruitless ambitions that grow despicable as soon as they are reached, the vain contest with phantoms, the maddening and agony of the brain and spirit in all the rush and glare of living, the dusty tumult, the grinding, the shouting, the idiotic91 repetition of the streets, the sterile92 abundance, the sick gluttony, and the thirst which goes on drinking?
Out of one darkness the travellers have come to be taken into another, but for a moment one sees their faces, awful and still, all uplifted towards the ship. This is all: their words have vanished, all memory of the movements they made then has also vanished: one remembers only their silence and their still faces lifted in the phantasmal light of lost time; one sees them ever, still and silent, as they slide from darkness on the river of time; one sees them waiting at the ship’s great side, all silent and all damned to die, with their grave, white faces lifted in a single supplication93 to the ship, and towards the silent row of passengers along the deck, who for a moment return their gaze with the same grave and tranquil stare. That silent meeting is a summary of all the meetings of men’s lives: in the silence one hears the slow, sad breathing of humanity, one knows the human destiny.
“Oh, look!” the woman cried again. “Oh, see! Was ever anything more beautiful?” The ship’s great beetling94 cliff swept sheer above her. She turned the small, flushed flower of her face and saw the slant and reach and swell95 of the great prow96, and music filled her. She lifted the small, flushed flower of her face and saw the many men so little, so lonely, silent, and intent, that bent97 above her, looking from the ship’s steep rail. She turned and saw the people all around her, the swift weave and patterned shifting of the forms, and she saw light then, ancient fading light, that fell upon the coasts of evening, and quiet waters reddened by fading day, and heard the unearthly creakings of a gull12; and wonder filled her. And the strange and mortal ache of beauty, the anguish98 to pronounce what never could be spoken, to grasp what never could be grasped, to hold and keep for ever what was gone the moment she put her hand upon it —
“Oh, these people here,” she cried in a high tone —“The ship! . . . My God! the things that I could tell you all!” she cried indignantly. “The things I know — the things I have inside me here!”— she struck herself upon the breast with one clenched99 hand — “the way things are, the way they happen, and the beauty of the clear design — and no one ever asks me!” she cried out indignantly. “This wonderful thing is going on inside me all the time — and no one ever wants to know the way it happens!”— and stood staring at her friend accusingly a moment, a little figure of indignant loveliness until, becoming aware of people’s smiles and her companion’s laughter, her own face was suddenly suffused100, and, casting back her head, she was swept with gale-like merriment — a full, rich, woman’s yell of triumph and delight.
And yet, even as she laughed, she was pierced again by the old ache of wonder, the old anguish of unspoken desire, and saw the many men, so lonely, silent, and intent, the ship immense and sudden there above her in old evening light, and so — remembering, “Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook? or his tongue with a cord which thou lettest down?”— was still with wonder.
Ah, strange and beautiful, the woman thought, how can I longer bear this joy intolerable, the music of this great song unpronounceable, the anguish of this glory unimaginable, which fills my life to bursting and which will not let me speak! It is too hard, too hard, and not to be endured, to feel the great vine welling in my heart, the wild, strange music swelling101 in my throat, the triumph of that final perfect song that aches for ever there just at the gateway102 of my utterance103 — and that has no tongue to speak! Oh, magic moments that are so perfect, unknown, and inevitable104, to stand here at this ship’s great side, here at the huge last edge of evening and return, with this still wonder in my heart and knowing only that somehow we are fulfilled of you, oh time! And see how gathered there against the rail high over us, there at the ship’s great side, are all the people, silent, lonely, and so beautiful, strange brothers of this voyage, chance phantoms of the bitter briefness of our days — and you, oh youth — for now she saw him there for the first time — who bend there, lone86 and lean and secret, at the rail of night, why are you there alone while these, your fellows, wait? . . . Ah, secret and alone, she thought — how lean with hunger, and how fierce with pride, and how burning with impossible desire he bends there at the rail of night — and he is wild and young and foolish and forsaken105, and his eyes are starved, his soul is parched106 with thirst, his heart is famished107 with a hunger that cannot be fed, and he leans there on the rail and dreams great dreams, and he is mad for love and is athirst for glory, and he is so cruelly mistaken — and so right! . . . Ah, see, she thought, how that wild light flames there upon his brow — how bright, how burning and how beautiful — Oh, passionate108 and proud! — how like the wild, lost soul of youth you are, how like my wild lost father who will not return!
He turned, and saw her then, and so finding her, was lost, and so losing self, was found, and so seeing her, saw for a fading moment only the pleasant image of the woman that perhaps she was, and that life saw. He never knew: he only knew that from that moment his spirit was impaled109 upon the knife of love. From that moment on he never was again to lose her utterly110, never to wholly repossess unto himself the lonely, wild integrity of youth which had been his. At that instant of their meeting, that proud inviolability of youth was broken, not to be restored. At that moment of their meeting she got into his life by some dark magic, and before he knew it he had her beating in the pulses of his blood — somehow thereafter — how he never knew — to steal into the conduits of his heart, and to inhabit the lone, inviolable tenement111 of his one life; so, like love’s great thief, to steal through all the adyts of his soul, and to become a part of all he did and said and was — through this invasion so to touch all loveliness that he might touch, through this strange and subtle stealth of love henceforth to share all that he might feel or make or dream, until there was for him no beauty that she did not share, no music that did not have her being in it, no horror, madness, hatred112, sickness of the soul, or grief unutterable, that was not somehow consonant113 to her single image and her million forms — and no final freedom and release, bought through the incalculable expenditure114 of blood and anguish and despair, that would not bear upon its brow for ever the deep scar, upon its sinews the old mangling115 chains, of love.
After all the blind, tormented116 wanderings of youth, that woman would become his heart’s centre and the target of his life, the image of immortal117 oneness that again collected him to one, and hurled118 the whole collected passion, power and might of his one life into the blazing certitude, the immortal governance and unity119, of love.
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement120 flame.”
And now all the faces pass in through the ship’s great side (the tender flower face among them). Proud, potent121 faces of rich Jews, alive with wealth and luxury, glow in rich, lighted cabins; the doors are closed, and the ship is given to the darkness and the sea.
The End
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收听单词发音
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1
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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coastal
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| adj.海岸的，沿海的，沿岸的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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7
tinging
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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9
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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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 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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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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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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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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42
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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43
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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44
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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46
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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47
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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48
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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49
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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50
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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51
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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52
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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53
promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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55
grills
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| n.烤架( grill的名词复数 )；（一盘）烤肉；格板；烧烤餐馆v.烧烤( grill的第三人称单数 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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ballrooms
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| n.舞厅( ballroom的名词复数 ) | |
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57
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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58
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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59
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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60
funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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61
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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63
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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65
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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67
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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69
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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fabulously
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| 难以置信地，惊人地 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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72
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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80
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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84
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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85
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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86
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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87
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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88
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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89
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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92
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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95
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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96
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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98
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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99
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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102
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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103
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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104
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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105
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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106
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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107
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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108
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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109
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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111
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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112
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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113
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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114
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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115
mangling
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| 重整 | |
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116
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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117
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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118
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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119
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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120
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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121
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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