Polyeidus here: shape-shifting, general prophecy.
No one who sees entire the scope and variety of the world can rest content with a single form. Gods and seers have such sight; hence our propensity3 for metamorphosis. Yet Zeus in all his guises4 is still Zeus, "presiding god of classic Greek mythology6"; I in mine only Polyeidus, advisor7 to, perhaps father of, a minor8 hero in that same local corpus. Being Old Man of the Marsh9 was irksome. I grew bored to death with Bellerophon. What Zeus sees I don't know, but I saw (in bits and pieces, to be sure, like runes on my scattered10 daughter's oak leaves or scrambled11 bits of satellite photography) the fore12 and aft of the whole vessel13 of human history; as I swatted spiders and pulled leeches14 off me there in the Ale?an flats, I came understandably to wish myself not only out of that particular swamp, but out of Greek myth altogether -- that tiresome15 catalogue of rapes16, petty jealousies17, power grabs; that marble-columned ghetto18 of immortals20. Why couldn't I turn myself, I wondered, not into another personage-from-the-future (no more than a disquieting21 anachronism), but into Scheherazade, "Henry Burlingame III," or Napoleon in his own time and place? Recollecting22 the odd document I'd briefly23 been on Bellerophon's second try (a happy chance; I don't by any means always read the pages I turn into), I petitioned Zeus himself to give me a hand (promising the customary quid pro1 quo, to spread his fame in the new world), concentrated as one must on a single image -- that verbo-visual pun of a honeybee which appears on Napoleonic flags and, stitched in gold, on the violet pall24 of the casket that transported his alleged25 remains26 from St. Helena back to Paris -- and grunted27 hard.
I woke up at the back door of heaven, an odious29 large insect, Tabanus atratus perhaps, with noisy wings and wicked mandibles, buzzing about a mound30 of godshit. Great Zeus (from my perspective) towered over me disdainfully and thundered: "You're a shape-shifter: think of it as transmogrified ambrosia31. Heh heh."
Until one is beyond their reach, the Olympians' whims32 are our directives. I tried; no luck. No matter, either: my newly compound eyes showed me more aspects of the future -- mine, Bellerophon's, the world's -- than I'd ever seen. I tried to groan33; Zeus grinned.
"Now you see it, eh, Heironymous? By imitating perfectly34 the Pattern of Mythic Heroism35, your man Bellerophon has become a perfect imitation of a mythic hero. That sort of thing amuses us. But look again at your famous Pattern. It says Mystery and Tragedy: Mystery in the hero's journey to the other world, his illumination, his transcension of categories, his special dispensation; Tragedy in his return to daily reality, the necessary loss in his translation of the ineffable36 into sentences and cities, his fall from the favor of gods and men, his exile, and the rest. Now look at Bellerophon's story thus far: it's not Mystery and Tragedy, but confusion and fiasco, d'accord?"
A gadfly (so I was, Heironymous hight, imperfectly magicked once again, into a name without initial in our alphabet) doesn't quibble with the god of gods. I buzzed neutrally, shrugged37 some shoulders.
"All which is as it should be, in his case," Zeus rumbled38 on. "But see what's coming up! I've had Amazons in my time; take it from me, that girl Melanippe's hippomanes is the real thing. Look at Bellerophon climbing on that crazy horse, straight for heaven, a kilometer a minute! He's high enough already to see Mystery and Tragedy plain; give him a few more pages and he'll rise above both and be a star boarder here forever! That's the sort of thing we're not amused by, and there'll be no bugging40 out for you until it's taken care of."
"Mm."
He tested the zigzag41 edge of a thunderbolt with his thumb. "Pegasus, on the other hand, is my natural nephew and a pretty piece of horseflesh, just what I need for packing these bolts from the Cyclops' smithy when somebody's hubris42 wants a bit of smiting43. But if I shoot down your Bellerophon with one of these babies, there'll be nothing left of the winged horse except a few hundred kilos of viande de cheval bien cuit. You follow me?"
"Mm."
"Okay: if you want an exit visa out of that pile, wait till your boy gets this far and then give Pegasus a bite in the crupper. The rest will take care of itself: new country, new language, new myths -- three millennia44 from here. It's that or eat shit forever. Done?"
I readily M-hmm'd.
"Good. Then you only need to eat it while you wait. Mortals, I swear."
I swore too, in available nasals, as he left, rubbed my wings furiously with two back legs, and looked with all my eyes for ways to turn the letter of his law to my advantage, like a cunning wrestler45 his adversary's Reset46 But there were none, and lunchtime came, and I was famished47, but dared not leave the sill for better fare. Presently the Queen of Heaven herself came out, under pretext48 of emptying the royal thundermug. As best one can in mm's and hm's I buzzed for pity.
"Don't worry," Hera said, breathing through her mouth. She set the pot aside and pointed49 down to Corinth. "See that sexy little white heifer grazing near Nemea? How'd you like to have her for lunch?" It was, I saw, Io, her husband's latest mistress, by him disguised: in my then condition (and by contrast with my doorsill menu) an appetizing morsel50, the more so for its relish51 of revenge on my tormentor52. "Bellerophon won't be here for a while yet, as you know," the Queen went on. "I'll cover for you. Go to it."
I did, made a long lunch of squealing53 Io from Dodona to the sea since named after her, across the Bosphorus ditto, up into the Caucasus (where big Z's buzzards made their lunch of foie Prométhe), back to Colchis, off to Joppa (crashing through Perseid 1-F-5 like a bull through a china shop), as far east as Bactria and India, then west through Arabia Deserta with a caravan54 of stories picked up along the way, to Ethiopia and down the Nile. At Chemmis, gorged55, I let her go, paused to wash my mandibles at a drinking fountain near the empty temple, then sped burping up to Olympus just in time to see, with my left eyes, wrathful Zeus, thunderbolt in hand, sitting on the sill among the shit and shards56 of the celestial57 chamberpot, smashed either by himself in anger or by his overtaken wife in fright; and with my right, bold Bellerophon casting away the golden bridle58, feeding Pegasus the final leaves of Melanippe's herb, and with the scroll-rolled Pattern for his riding crop, whipping the grand beast up those thin last leagues to heaven.
"Just in time!" I tried to call to both. "Let me give you a little goose there, Bell-boy! Heh! Sorry about Miss Io, Zeus, sir: your missus had me sort of cornered. But I saw to it she got to Egypt safely in time to have your child; she's in a nice little spiral temple down in Chemmis: pretty pictures on the wall, et cetera. I didn't bite her hard; just a tickle59, really; not the way I'm going to bite this horse here, to put him over the old finish-line for you! Heh. Here goes!"
I dived in and gave Pegasus a good one under the tail, bleh, as Zeus raised his bolt and Bellerophon his Pattern-scroll. The god stayed his hand when the winged horse bucked61 and whinnied; not so the hero, who in the instant before he pitched from that seat forever let me have it, then let go all. Pegasus bolted to his final ditto'd master; I changed, postswatly, into a fading copy of the Greek seer Polyeidus, falling with his fallen son to death. Zeus laughed down after us (the drop from heaven takes a dizzy while):
"A hundred eyes, a hundred blind-spots, Polyeidus! We gods can't break our vows62, but we can make you wish we could. One way or another, in that new world you're dropping in on, you'll be Old Man of the Marsh for keeps. And unless your son forgives the tricks you've played on him, you'll always be some version or other of his story. God knows why. Heh. 'Bye."
Spread-eagled, Bellerophon sailed over and called: "When he said I was your son, you sonofabitch, which twin did he take me for?"
I was too busy dying and plotting to answer directly: dying forever to the form of Polyeidus; plotting to my best interest this dénouement -- how I might begin by becoming the terminal interview which follows; grow thence into all of Part Three and ultimately permeate63 (at least when the moon was on my side) the whole Bellerophoniad; grow narratively64 on in death like hair and fingernails until I comprehended the entire Bellerophonic corpus and related literature; con2 my son the imitation hero, as Admetus conned65 his wife Alcestis, into taking my place, or part of it, in death's company by becoming his own life story, the myth of Bellerophon. One way or another, if I was obliged to be Old Man of the Marsh, I would make the world my oyster66. With an expiratory grunt28 I changed, for openers, into these fluttering final pages, written (so help me Muse) in "American":
Polyeidus: Ah so. As you see, our stars are falling fast. In the manner of the Perseid, mutatis mutandis, would you care to end this tale by answering freely as we fall five questions for posterity67?
Bellerophon: Perseid may be your model; I have none any longer. That's one for you. My first is the last I asked before you changed format68: when Zeus called me your son, whom did he take me for?
P.: Bellerophon, of course. Who else? N.Q. When you swatted me with the Pattern, you fulfilled the prophecy first laid on me as I humped your mother in the surf: that I would die by my son's hand unless he agreed to take my place, et cetera. The usual. And I scarcely expect you to do that, even though you'll die anyway when you make your hard landing a few questions from now, whereas a paginated form like mine can expect a certain low-impact afterlife. So what've you been up to since you left Themiscyra at the end of Part Two? Please speak directly into the page.
B.: A funny thing happened on the way to Mount Chimera69. Melanippe's hip39 sent me higher than I've ever been, and I saw the ends of all the supporting characters in my story. I saw my mother in Corinth, bitter and senile, dying at the graves of Glaucus and Bellerus, cursing Poseidon for not taking better care of his by-blows and Bellerophon for not taking better care of her. There was your daughter, out of her head altogether, wrecked70 by the goddess who should've honored her: in a mantic stupor71 in the grove72 she was crying "Bellerus! Bellerus!" while her lover sold her frowsy favors to frightened fourteen-year-olds at a drachma per. Worse yet, that lover, Sibyl's last, was Melanippe, the first Melanippe: not a suicide after all, but a gross and bitter bull-dyke who had taken Hippolyta's name and place to raise her daughter, Melanippe Two. Whether I was that daughter's father, my second sight was kindly73 blind to: once I'd deflowered Melanippe mere74 and nipped the bud of her career, she'd turned promiscuous75 as Sibyl, but out of self-spite: a predator76 with heart of flint. Over in Tiryns I saw her bitter bullish like, Anteia, forcing docile77 girls into tribadism while Megapenthes plotted coup78 d'état and double-theta'd sodomocracy. I saw Philono?: heartbroken but gentle still after brief romances with other men and suicide, she had withdrawn79 to a lonely Lycian retreat-house to live out her days in bookish solitude80 and infrequent masturbation. Of the high-altitude kisses I showered on her head, she was as mercifully unaware81 as of the wreckage82 of our children and our state. Those former were grown not into semidemideities (an impossibility) but into commonplace adults, grasping, doomed83. The boys, per program, had taken the ring-bait, quarreled over whose child should be shot through it to determine my successor, and been finessed84 by their clever sister, who volunteered her own child Sarpedon; this was her son by a high-school dropout85 who'd seduced86 her in the guise5 of Zeus-disguised-as-a-high-school-dropout, oldest trick in the book: it duped her brothers into relinquishing87 their claims in her favor as easily as it had her into relinquishing her favors to the dropout's claims. Zeus himself, unduped and unamused, then commissioned Artemis to cut my dear daughter down for this imposture88, and Ares (count on Z for overkill) to dispatch my sons in the ten-millionth bloody89 skirmish of our endless war with the Carians and Solymians. Dead, dead, dead. The kingdom, then, was ruled by greedy viceroys, my former students, in the infancy90 of Sarpedon, who will himself grow up to die on the losing side in the Trojan War.
This latter vision was my first clear evidence that I was flying now above mere panorama91, into prescience: fearfully therefore I turned my eyes to the banks of the Thermodon, and beheld92 the final horror: straightforward93 as always, my dauntless darling had put me through the ordeal94 of Part Two by way of testing her conviction that it was not her mortal self I loved, so much as some dream of immortality95 of which I fancied her the cute incorporation96; not one to toy with either life or death, upon my flight she'd washed face and hands, brushed teeth, combed hair, made up our bed, lain down upon it, and passed the time by singing to herself as many Amazon campfire songs as she could remember from her girlhood until, as she'd expected, her first Full-Moon menstrual flow commenced, about midafternoon; at that evidence that she was after all not pregnant by me, without expression or hesitation97 she drove her knife hilt-deep into her perfect little left brown breast. Whatever blinders I still steered98 with thereupon fell from me, and I saw the chimera of my life. By imitating perfectly the Pattern of Mythic Heroism, I'd become, not a mythic hero, but a perfect Reset I was no Perseus, my tale no Perseid -- even had we been, I and it, so what? Not mortal me, but immortality, was the myth.
P.: That asks and answers your second question.
B.: Who cares?
P.: Come come. You've wrecked a certain number of good women, my daughter by who knows whom included, and you're heroically chastened by the wreckage -- small comfort to them! But you admit you're new at second sight, which at its clearest is foggier than first: what if I told you that your view was strictly99 from your viewpoint? That in her "mortal part" at least (per Perseid), Philono? remembers you with much affection and some gentle amusement as her first real lover, regrets (but no longer bitterly) your deserting her for Melanippe, but has come rather to enjoy and even prefer her more or less solitary100 life? And that while Melanippe, a more demonstrative young woman, did indeed stick herself with the dagger101, she was saved from Hades by a passing Gargarensian, a handsome young visiting surgeon of promise who heard her cries, rushed to the rescue, took her with him on a tour of the Mediterranean102 to cheer her up, subsequently married her, and made her the happy mother of ten beautiful children, nine of them sons?
B.: I'd like it fine, god damn you. So much for your third, fourth, and fifth. Is it true?
P.: Who knows? All I see when I look in that direction is their (relatively) immortal19 part, this endless story of yours. So let's not count rhetorical questions. What about Chimera, my greatest invention? I hope you don't think you've killed an image like that with the line "I saw the chimera of my life."
B.: Not at all. What I saw was that it's not a great invention: there's nothing original in it; it neither hurt nor helped anyone; it's preposterous103, not monstrous104, and compared to Medusa or the Sphinx, for example, even its metaphoric106 power is slight. That's why, up there in the crater107, it cooperated in its own destruction by melting the lead on my lance-point: its death was the only mythopoeic thing about it. Needless to say, the moment I understood that was the moment I really killed Chimera. No need to go to Lycia then; I changed course, chucked Athene's bridle, dug in my heels, and made straight for Olympus.
P.: Whatever for, your dying father asks obligingly, inasmuch as you'd already decided108 that immortality is a bad trip? Megalomania? Ambitious affirmation of the absurd?
B.: Certainly I was ambitious, all along; but to call ambition on that epic109 scale mere vanity is a double error. For while it's true that Bellerophon's aspiration110 to immortality was without social relevance111, for example, and thoroughly112 elitist -- in fact, of benefit to no one but himself -- it should be observed that it didn't glorify113 "him," either, since the name he's called by is not his actual name, but a fictitious114 one. His fame, then, such as it was, is, and might have been, is as it were anonymous115. Moreover, he does not, like an exiled tyrant116 or absconder117, enjoy his fortune incognito119; even had his crazy flight succeeded, he'd not have known it: there'd be another constellation120 in the sky, bearing the name he'd assumed -- but Perseid to the contrary notwithstanding, it's hardly to be imagined that those patterns we call "Perseus," "Medusa," "Pegasus" (There he is! Sweet steed, fly on, with better riders than myself!) are aware of their existences, any more than are their lettered counterparts on the page. Or, if by some mystery they are, that they enjoy their fixed121, frigidified careers. Got that, Dad? For you are my dad -- old pard, old buck60, old worm! -- I don't question that: only Polyeidus's son could have mimed122 a life so well, so long.
P.: So. Well. So long is right. And so much for Poseidon's name on your birth certificate.
B.: False letters spell out my life from first to last. But not Bellerus's.
P.: Here it comes. You down there: wake up for the anagnoresis!
B.: What marsh did you say we're falling into? Do the people speak my language?
P.: Forget it. The present tenants123 are red-skinned, speak Algonkian, and have a mythology but no literature. At the rate we're falling, by the time we land they'll be white and black, speak more or less in English, and have a literature (which no one reads) but no mythology. On with the story: even in Greek it's muddy enough, but I've known what's coming for two hundred pages. In any language, it's Sibyl's Letter's Second Clause.
B.: Right. POSEIDON'S SON HE ISN'T. I'm not star-bound Bellerus, but starstruck Deliades. Bellerus died in the grove that night, in my place, while I humped (half-sister!) Sibyl in holy his. I was his mortal killer124; therefore I became his immortal voice: Deliades I buried in Bellerophon, to live out in selfless counterfeit125, from that hour to this, my brother's demigoddish life. It's not my story; never was. I never killed Chimarrhus or Chimera, or rode the winged horse, or slept with Philono?, or laid my head between Melanippe's thighs126: the voice that spoke127 to them all those nights was Bellerus's voice. And the story it tells isn't a lie, but something larger than fact. . .
P.: In a word, a myth. Philono? guessed all this, you know, back in First-Ebb days. And Melanippe long before she wrote the horse-race episode. As for me, it goes without saying that this and everything else you say goes without saying? I knew it before it was true, and if I'm astonished now it's because seers see past and future but not et cetera -- everything takes your true prophet by surprise. So, you blew your big scene. That's no Elysium rushing up at us: it's Dorchester County, Maryland, Upsilon Sigma Alpha, and will be for several generations yet. When you hit it, you'll go deeper underground than your brother.
B.: How many questions left?
P.: One for me, two for you. Now that I've answered you, one apiece.
B.: Can you turn me into this story, Polyeidus? Let me be Bellerus's voice forever, an immortal Bellerophoniad.
P.: Out of the question.
B.: It's what you've tried to trick me into for half a dozen pages! I'm offering to take your place! Don't tell me it's impossible!
P.: Quite impossible -- in the na?ve way you mean. I can't turn anybody but myself into anything.
B.: Then I'm dead. Good night, Bellerus. Good night, all.
P.: What I might manage -- not because I owe you any favors, but for reasons of my own -- is to turn myself from this interview into you-in-Bellerophoniad-form: a certain number of printed pages in a language not untouched by Greek, to be read by a limited number of "Americans," not all of whom will finish or enjoy them. Regrettably, I'll have to have a certain role in the thing also -- not beating Zeus out on that. But since I'll be there as an aspect of you, so to speak, I'll be free enough to operate in a few aspects of my own: "Harold Bray," perhaps, or his nonfictional counterpart, the legitimate128 heir to the throne of France and impresario129 of the Second Revolution, an utterly130 novel Reset No Perseid, I grant you, but it's the best I can do in what tune118 we have left. That tidewater's coming up fast.
B.: I don't like the sound of it. I'd rather fall into a thornbush; become a blind lame131 vatic figure; avoid the paths of men; float upon the marshy132 tide forever, reciting my Reset
P.: Stop gnashing your teeth. Take it or leave it.
B.: I'll take it.
P.: Done. Heh. Any last words to the world at large? Quickly.
B.: I hate this, World! It's not at all what I had in mind for Bellerophon. It's a beastly fiction, ill-proportioned, full of longueurs, lumps, lacunae, a kind of monstrous mixed metaphor105 --
P.: Five more.
B.: It's no Bellerophoniad. It's a
Scan Notes, v3.0: Proofed carefully against DT, italics intact. There are 5 or 6 images embedded133 in this file, and in several places I used the font "Symbol" to reproduce the Greek words "Naw AOhnhz " and "Naw Ajrodithz ". Paragraphs checked carefully because of run-on discussions, especially in Dunyazadiad. And yes, the book really ends that way.
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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propensity
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guises
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| n.外观，伪装( guise的名词复数 )v.外观，伪装( guise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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guise
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mythology
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advisor
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minor
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marsh
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scattered
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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fore
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vessel
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leeches
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tiresome
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rapes
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jealousies
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ghetto
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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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immortals
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disquieting
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recollecting
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briefly
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pall
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alleged
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remains
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grunted
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grunt
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odious
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mound
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ambrosia
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WHIMS
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groan
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perfectly
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heroism
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ineffable
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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38
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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39
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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40
bugging
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| [法] 窃听 | |
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41
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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42
hubris
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| n.傲慢，骄傲 | |
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43
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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44
millennia
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| n.一千年，千禧年 | |
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45
wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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46
reset
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| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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47
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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48
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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49
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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50
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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51
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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52
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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53
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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54
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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55
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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56
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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57
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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58
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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59
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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60
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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61
bucked
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| adj.快v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的过去式和过去分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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62
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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63
permeate
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| v.弥漫，遍布，散布；渗入，渗透 | |
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64
narratively
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| 用故事体 | |
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65
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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67
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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68
format
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| n.设计，版式；[计算机]格式，DOS命令:格式化(磁盘)，用于空盘或使用过的磁盘建立新空盘来存储数据；v.使格式化，设计，安排 | |
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69
chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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70
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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71
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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72
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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73
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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76
predator
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| n.捕食其它动物的动物；捕食者 | |
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77
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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78
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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79
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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80
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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81
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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82
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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83
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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84
finessed
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| v.手腕，手段，技巧( finesse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
dropout
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| n.退学的学生；退学；退出者 | |
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86
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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87
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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88
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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89
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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90
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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91
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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92
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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93
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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94
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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95
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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96
incorporation
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| n.设立，合并，法人组织 | |
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97
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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98
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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99
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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100
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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101
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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102
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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103
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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104
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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105
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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106
metaphoric
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| adj. 使用隐喻的；比喻的；比喻意义的 | |
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107
crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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108
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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109
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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110
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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111
relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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112
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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113
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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114
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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115
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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116
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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117
absconder
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| n.潜逃者，逃跑者 | |
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118
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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119
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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120
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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121
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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122
mimed
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| v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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124
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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125
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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126
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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127
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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128
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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129
impresario
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| n.歌剧团的经理人；乐团指挥 | |
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130
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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131
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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132
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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133
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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