In the moment all is dear to me, dear that in this logic there is no redemption, the city itself being the highest form of madness and each and every part, organic or inorganic15, an expression of this same madness. I feel absurdly and humbly16 great, not as megalomaniac, but as human spore18, as the dead sponge of life swollen19 to saturation20. I no longer look into the eyes of the woman I hold in my arms but I swim through, head and arms and legs, and I see that behind the sockets21 of the eyes there is a region unexplored, the world of futurity, and here there is no logic whatever, just the still germination22 of events unbroken by night and day, by yesterday and tomorrow. The eye, accustomed to concentration on points in space, now concentrates on points in time; the eye sees forward and backward at will. The eye which was the I of the self no longer exists; this selfless eye neither reveals nor illuminates23. It travels along the line of the horizon, a ceaseless, uninformed voyager. Trying to retain the lost body I grew in logic as the city, a point digit24 in the anatomy25 of perfection. I grew beyond my own death, spiritually bright and hard. I was divided into endless yesterdays, endless tomorrows, resting only on the cusp of the event, a wall with many windows, but the house gone. I must shatter the walls and windows, the last shell of the lost body, if I am to rejoin the present. That is why I no longer look intothe eyes or through the eyes, but by the legerdemain26 of will swim through the eyes, head and arms and legs to explore the curve of vision. I see around myself as the mother who bore me once saw round the comers of time. I have broken the wall created by birth and the line of voyage is round and unbroken, even as the navel. No form, no image, no architecture, only concentric flights of sheer madness. I am the arrow of the dream's substantiality. I verify by flight. I nullify by dropping to earth.
Thus moments pass, veridic moments of time without space when I know all, and knowing all I collapse27 beneath the vault28 of the selfless dream.
Between these moments, in the interstices of the dream, life vainly tried to build up, but the scaffold of the city's mad logic is no support. As an individual, as flesh and blood, I am levelled down each day to make the fleshless, bloodless dty whose perfection is the sum of all logic and death to the dream. I am struggling against an oceanic death in which my own death is but a drop of water evaporating. To raise my own individual life but a fraction of an inch above this sinking sea of death I must have a faith greater than Christ's, a wisdom deeper than that of the greatest seer. I must have the ability and the patience to formulate29 what is not contained in the language of our time, for what is now intelligible is meaningless. My eyes are useless, for they render back only the image of the known. My whole body must become a constant beam of light, moving with an ever greater rapidity, never arrested, never looking back, never dwindling30. The dty grows like a cancer; I must grow like a sun. The dty eats deeper and deeper into the red; it is an insatiable white louse which must die eventually of inanition. I am going to starve the white louse which is eating me up. I am going to die as a dty in order to become again a man. Therefore I dose my ears, my eyes, my mouth.
Before I shall have become quite a man again I shall probably exist as a park, a sort of natural park in which people come to rest, to while away the time. What they say or do will be of little matter, for they will bring only their fatigue31, their boredom32, their hopelessness. I shall be a buffer33 between the white louse and the red corpuscle. I shall be a ventilator for removing the poisons accumulated through the effort to perfect that which is imperfecdble. I shall be law and order as it exists in nature as it is projected in dream. I shall be the wild park in the midst of the nightmare of perfection, the still, unshakeable dream in the midst of frenzied activity, the random35 shot on the white billiard table of logic. I shall know neither how to weep nor protest, but I shall be there always in absolute silence to receive and to restore. I shall say nothing until the time comes again to be a man. I shall make no effort to preserve, no effort to destroy. I shall make no judgments36, no criticisms. Those who have had enough will come to me for reflection and meditation37; those who have not had enough will die as they lived, in disorder38, in desperation, in ignorance of the truth of redemption. If one says to me, you must be religious, I shall make no answer. If one says to me, I have no time now, there's a cunt waiting for me, I shall make no answer. Or even if there be a revolution brewing39, I shall make no answer. There will always be a cunt or a revolution around the comer, but the mother who bore me turned many a comer and made no answer, and finally she turned herself inside out and I am the answer.
Out of such a wild mania17 for perfection naturally no one would have expected an evolution to a wild park, not even I myself, but it is infinitely40 better, while attending death, to live in a state of grace and natural bewilderment. Infinitely better, as life moves towards a deathly perfection, to be just a bit of breathing space, a stretch of green, a little fresh air, a pool of water. Better also to receive men silently and to enfold them, for there is no answer to make them while they are still frantically41 rushing to turn the corner.
I'm thinking now about the rock fight one summer's afternoon long long ago when I was staying with my Aunt Caroline up near Hell Gate. My Cousin Gene42 and I had been corralled by a gang of boys while we were playing in the park. We didn't know which side we were fighting for but we were fighting in dead earnest amidst the rock pile by the river bank. We had to show even more courage than the other boys because we were suspected of being sissies. That's how it happened that we killed one of the rival gang. Just as they were charging us my cousin Gene let go at the ringleader and caught him in the guts43 with a handsome-sized rock. I let go almost at the same instant and my rock caught him in the temple and when he went down he lay there for good and not a peep out of him. A few minutes later the cops came and the boy was found dead. He was eight or nine years old, about the same age as us. What they would have done to us if they caught us I don't know. Anyway, so as not to arouse any suspicion we hurried home: we had cleaned up a bit on the way and had combed our hair. We walked in looking almost as immaculate as when we had left the house. Aunt Caroline gave us our usual two big slices of sour rye with fresh butter and a little sugar over it and we sat there at the kitchen table listening to her with an angelic smile. It was an extremely hot day and she thought we had better stay in the house, in the big front room where the blinds had been pulled down, and play marbles with our little friend Joey Resselbaum. Joey had the reputation of being a little backward and ordinarily we would have trimmed him, but that afternoon, by a sort of mute understanding. Gene and I allowed him to win everything we had. Joey was so happy that he took us down to his cellar later and made his sister pull up her dresses and show us what was underneath45. Weesie, they called her, and I remember that she was stuck on me instantly. I came from another part of the city, so far away it seemed to them that it was almost like coming from another country. They even seemed to think that I talked differently from them. Whereas the other urchins46 used to pay to make Weesie lift her dress up, for us it was done with love. After a while we persuaded her not to do it any more for the other boys - we were in love with her and we wanted her to go straight.
When I left my cousin at the end of the summer I didn't see him again for twenty years or more. When we did meet what deeply impressed me was the look of innocence47 he wore - the same expression as the day of the rock fight. When I spoke48 to himabout the fight I was still more amazed to discover that he had forgotten that it was we who had lolled the boy: he remembered the boy's death but he spoke of it as though neither he nor I had had any part in it. When I mentioned Weesie's name he had difficulty in placing her. Don't you remember the cellar next door.. .Joey Kesselbaum ?At this a faint smile passed over his face. He thought it extraordinary that I should remember such things. He was already married, a father, and working in a factory making fancy pipe cases. He considered it extraordinary to remember events that had happened so far back in the past.
On leaving him that evening I felt terribly despondent49. It was as though he had attempted to eradicate50 a precious part of my life, and himself with it He seemed more attached to the tropical fish which he was collecting than to the wonderful past. As for me I recollect51 everything, everything that happened that summer, and particularly the day of the rock fight. There are times, in fact, when the taste of that big slice of sour rye which his mother handed me that afternoon is stronger in my mouth than the food I am actually tasting. And the sight of Weesie's little bud almost stronger than the actual feel of what is in my hand. The way the boy lay there, after we downed him, far far more impressive than the history of the World War. The whole long summer, in fact, seems like an idyll out of the Arthurian legends. I often wonder what it was about this particular summer which makes it so vivid in my memory. I have only to close my eyes a moment in order to relive each day. The death of the boy certainly caused me no anguish - it was forgotten before a week had elapsed. The sight of Weesie standing44 in the gloom of the cellar with her dress lifted up, that too passed easily away. Strangely enough, the thick slice of rye bread which his mother handed me each day seems to possess more potency52 than any other image of that period. I wonder about it... wonder deeply. Perhaps it is that whenever she handed me the slice of bread it was with a tenderness and a sympathy that I had never known before. She was a very homely53 woman, my Aunt Caroline. Her face was marked by the pox, but it was a kind, winsome54 face which no disfigurement could mar34. She was enormously stout55 and she had a very soft, a very caressing56 voice. When she ad- dressed me she seemed to give me even more attention, more consideration, than her own son. I would like to have stayed with her always; I would have chosen her for my own mother had I been permitted. I remember distinctly how when my mother arrived on a visit she seemed peeved57 that I was so contented58 with my new life. She even remarked that I was ungrateful, a remark I never forgot, because then I realized for the first time that to be ungrateful was perhaps necessary and good for one. If I dose my eyes now and I think about it, about the slice of bread, I think almost at once that in this house I never knew what it was to be scolded. I think if I had told my Aunt Caroline that I had killed a boy in the lot, told her just how it happened, she would have put her arm around me and forgiven me - instantly. That's why perhaps that summer is so precious to me. It was a summer of tacit and complete absolution. That's why I can't forget Weesie either. She was full of a natural goodness, a child who was in love with me and who made no reproaches. She was the first of the other sex to admire me for being different.After Weesie it was the other way round. I was loved, but I was hated too for being what I was. Weesie made an effort to understand. The very fact that I came from a strange country, that I spoke another language, drew her closer to me. The way her eyes shone when she presented me to her little friends is something I will never forget. Her eyes seemed to be bursting with love and admiration59. Sometimes the three of us would walk to the riverside in the evening and sitting on the bank we would talk as children talk when they are out of sight of their elders. We talked then, I know it now so well, more sanely60 and more profoundly than our parents. To give us that thick slice of bread each day the parents had to pay a heavy penalty. The worst penalty was that they became estranged61 from us. For, with each slice they fed us we became not only more indifferent to them, but we became more and more superior to them. In our ungratefulness was our strength and our beauty. Not being devoted62 we were innocent of all crime. The boy whom I saw drop dead, who lay there motionless, without making the slightest sound or whimper, the killing63 of that boy seems almost like a clean, healthy performance. The struggle for food, on the other hand, seems foul64 and degrading and when we stood in the presence of our parents we sensed that they had come to us unclean and for that we could never forgive them. The thick slice of bread in the afternoons, precisely65 because it was not earned, tasted delicious to us. Never again will bread taste this way. Never again will it be given this way. The day of the murder it was even tastier than ever. It had a slight taste of terror in it which has been lacking ever since. And it was received with Aunt Caroline's tacit but complete absolution.
There is something about the rye bread which I am trying to fathom66 - something vaguely67 delicious, terrifying and liberating68, something associated with first discoveries. I am thinking of another slice of sour rye which was connected with a still earlier period, when my little friend Stanley and I used to rifle the icebox. That was stolenbread and consequently even more marvellous to the palate than the bread which was given with love. But it was in the act of eating the rye bread, the walking around with it and talking at the same time, that something in the nature of revelation occurred. It was like a state of grace, a state of complete ignorance, of self-abnegation. Whatever was imparted to me in these moments I seem to have retained intact and there is no fear that I shall ever lose the knowledge that was gained. It was just the fact perhaps that it was no knowledge as we ordinarily think of it. It was almost like receiving a truth, though truth is almost too precise a word for it. The important thing about the sour rye discussions is that they always took place away from home, away from the eyes of our parents whom we feared but never respected. Left to ourselves there were no limits to what we might imagine. Facts had little importance for us: what we demanded of a subject was that it allow us opportunity to expand. What amazes me, when I look back on it, is how well we understood one another, how well we penetrated69 to the essential character of each and every one, young or old. At seven years of age we knew with dead certainty, for example, that such a fellow would end up in prison, that another would be a drudge70, and another a good for nothing, and so on. We were absolutely correct in our diagnoses, much more correct, for example, than our parents, or our teachers, more correct, indeed, than the so-called psychologists. Alfie Betcha turned out to be an absolute bum71: Johnny Gerhardt went to the penitentiary72: Bob Kunst became a work horse. Infallible predictions. The learning we received only tended to obscure our vision. From the day we went to school we learned nothing: on the contrary, we were made obtuse73, we were wrapped in a fog of words and abstractions.
With the sour rye the world was what it is essentially74, a primitive75 world ruled by magic, a world in which fear played the most important role. The boy who could inspire the most fear was the leader and he was respected as long as he could maintain his power. There were other boys who were rebels, and they were admired, but they never became the leader. The majority were clay in the hands of the fearless ones: a few could be depended on, but the most not. The air was full of tension -nothing could be predicted for the morrow. This loose, primitive nucleus76 of a society created sharp appetites, sharp emotions, sharp curiosity. Nothing was taken for granted: each day demanded a new test of power, a new sense of strength or of failure. And so, up until the age of nine or ten, we had a real taste of life - we were on our own. That is, those of us who were fortunate enough not to have been spoiled by our parents, those of us who were free to roam the streets at night and to discover things with our own eyes.
What I am thinking of, with a certain amount of regret and longing77, is that this thoroughly78 restricted life of early boyhood seems like a limitless universe and the life which followed upon it, the life of the adult, a constantly diminishing realm. From the moment when one is put in school one is lost: one has the feeling of having a halter put around his neck. The taste goes out of the bread as it goes out of life. Getting the bread becomes more important than the eating of it Everything is calculated and everything has a price upon it.
My cousin Gene became an absolute nonentity79: Stanley became a first-rate failure. Besides these two boys, for whom I had the greatest affection, there was another, Joey, who has since become a letter carrier. I could weep when I think of what life has made them. As boys they were perfect, Stanley least of all because Stanley was more temperamental. Stanley went into violent rages now and then and there was no telling how you stood with him from day to day. But Joey and Gene were the essence of goodness: they were friends in the old meaning of the word. I think of Joey often when I go out into the country because he was what is called a country boy. That meant, for one thing, that he was more loyal, more sincere, more tender, than the boys we knew. I can see Joey now coming to meet me:
he was always running with arms wide open and ready to embrace me, always breathless with adventures that he was planning for my participation80, always loaded with gifts which he had saved for my coming. Joey received me like the monarchs81 of old received their guests. Everything I looked at was mine. We had innumerable things to tell each other and nothing was dull or boring. The difference between our respective worlds was enormous. Though I was of the city too, still, when I visited my cousin Gene, I became aware of an even greater city, a city of New York proper in which my sophistication was negligible. Stanley knew no excursions from his own neighbourhood, but Stanley had come from a strange land over the sea, Poland, and there was always between us the mark of the voyage. The fact that he spoke another tongue also increased our admiration for him. Each one was surrounded by a distinguishing aura, by a well-defined identity which was preserved inviolate82. With the entrance into life these traits of difference fell away and we all became more or less alike and, of course, most unlike our own selves. And it is this loss of the peculiar83 self, of the perhaps unimportant individuality, which saddens me and makes the rye bread stand out glowingly. The wonderful sour rye went into the making of our individual selves: it was like the communion loaf in which all participate but from which each one receives only according to his peculiar state of grace. Now we are eating of the same bread, but without benefit of communion, without grace. We are eating to fill our bellies84 and our hearts are cold and empty. We are separate but not individual. There was another thing about the sour rye and that was that we often ate a raw onion with it. I remember standing with Stanley in the late afternoons, a sandwich in hand, in front of the veterinary's which was just opposite my home. It always seemed to be late afternoon when Dr. McKinney elected to castrate a stallion, an operation which was done in public and which always gathered a small crowd. I remember the smell of the hot iron and the quiver of the horse's legs. Dr. McKinney's goatee, the taste of the raw onion and the smell of the sewer85 gas just behind us where they were laying in a new gas main. It was an olfactory86 performance through and through and, as Abelard so well describes it, practically painless. Not knowing the reason for the operation we used to hold long discussions afterwards which usually ended in a brawl87. Nobody liked Dr. McKinney either: there was a smell of iodoform about him and of stale horse piss. Sometimes the gutter88 in front of his own office was filled with blood and in the winter time the blood froze into the ice and gave a strange look to his sidewalk. Now and then the big two-wheeled cart came, an open cart which smelled like the devil, and they whisked a dead horse into it. Rather it was hoisted89 in, the carcass, by a long chain which made a creaking noise like the dropping of an anchor. The smell of a bloated dead horse is a foul smell and our street was full of foul smells. On the comer was Paul Sauer's place where raw hides and trimmed hides were stacked up in the street: they stank90 frightfully too. And then the acrid91 odour coming from the tin factory behind the house - like the smell of modem92 progress. The smell of a dead horse, which is almost unbearable93, is still a thousand times better than the smell of burning chemicals. And the sight of a dead horse with a bullet hole in the temple, his head lying in a pool of blood and his asshole bursting with the last spasmic evacuation, is still a better sight than that of a group of men in blue aprons94 coming out of the arched doorway95 of the tin factory with a hand-truck loaded with bales of fresh-made tin. Fortunately for us there was a bakery opposite the tin factory and from the back door of the bakery, which was only a grill96, we could watch the bakers97 at work and get the sweet, irresistible98 odour of bread and cake. And if, as I say, the gas mains were being laid there was another strange medley99 of smells - the smell of earth just turned up, of rotted iron pipes, of sewer gas, and of the onion sandwiches which the Italian labourers ate whilst reclining against the mounds100 of upturned earth. There were other smells too, of course, but less striking: such, for instance, as the smell of Silverstein's tailor shop where there was always a great deal of pressing going on. This was a hot, fetid stench which can be best apprehended101 by imagining that Silverstein, who was a lean, smelly Jew himself, was cleaning out the farts which his customers had left behind in their pants. Next door was the candy and stationery102 shop owned by two daffy old maids who were religious: here there was the almost sickeningly sweet smell of taffy, of Spanish peanuts, of jujubes and Sen-Sen and of Sweet Caporal cigarettes. The stationery store was like a beautiful cave, always cool, always full of intriguing103 objects: where the soda104 fountain was, which gave off another distinct odour, ran a thick marble slab105 which turned sour in the summer time and yet mingled106 pleasantly, the sourness, with the slightly ticklish107, dry smell of the carbonated water when it was fizzed into the glass of ice cream.
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1
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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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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impermeable
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| adj.不能透过的，不渗透的 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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inorganic
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| adj.无生物的；无机的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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spore
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| n.(无花植物借以繁殖的)孢子，芽胞 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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germination
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| n.萌芽，发生；萌发；生芽；催芽 | |
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illuminates
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| v.使明亮( illuminate的第三人称单数 )；照亮；装饰；说明 | |
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digit
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| n.零到九的阿拉伯数字，手指，脚趾 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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legerdemain
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| n.戏法，诈术 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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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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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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47
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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48
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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49
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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50
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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51
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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52
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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53
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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54
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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57
peeved
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| adj.恼怒的，不高兴的v.（使）气恼，（使）焦躁，（使）愤怒( peeve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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59
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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60
sanely
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| ad.神志清楚地 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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63
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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64
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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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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70
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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71
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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72
penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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73
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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81
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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84
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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85
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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86
olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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87
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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92
modem
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| n.调制解调器 | |
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93
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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94
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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95
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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96
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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97
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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98
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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99
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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100
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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101
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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102
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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103
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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104
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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105
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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106
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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107
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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