Why I think of Maxie Schnadig I don't know, unless it is because of Dostoievski. The night I sat down to read Dostoievski for the first time was a most important event in my life, even more important than my first love. It was the first deliberate, conscious act which had significance for me; it changed the whole face of the world. Whether it is true that the clock stopped that moment when I looked up after the first deep gulp2 I don't know any more. But the world stopped dead for a moment, that I know. It was my first glimpse into the soul of a man, or shall I say simply that Dostoievski was the first man to reveal his soul to me? Maybe I have been a bit queer before that, without realizing it, but from the moment that I dipped into Dostoievski I was definitely, irrevocably, contentedly3 queer. The ordinary waking, work-a-day world was finished for me. Any ambition of desire I had to write was also killed - for a long time to come. I was like those men who have been too long in the trenches4, too long under fire. Ordinary human suffering, ordinary human jealousy5, ordinary human ambitions - it was just so much shit to me.
I can visualize6 best my condition when I think of my relations with Maxie and his sister Rita. At the time Maxie and I were both interested in sport. We used to go swimming together a great deal, that I remember well. Often we passed the whole day and night at the beach. I had only met Maxie's sister once or twice; whenever I brought up her name Maxie would rather frantically7 begin to talk about something else.
That annoyed me because I was really bored to death with Maxie's company, tolerating him only because he loaned me money readily and bought me things which I needed. Every time we started for the beach I was in hopes his sister would turn up unexpectedly. But no, he always managed to keep her out of reach. Well, one day as we were undressing in the bath house and he was showing me what a fine tight scrotum he had, I said to him right out of the blue - "listen, Maxie, that's all right about your nuts, they're fine and dandy, and there's nothing to worry about but where in hell is Rita all the time, why don't you bring her along some time and let me take a good look at her quim... yes, quim,you know what I mean." Maxie, being a Jew from Odessa, had never heard the word quim before. He was deeply shocked by my words and yet at the same time intrigued9 by this new word. In a sort of daze10 he said to me - "Jesus, Henry, you oughtn't to say a thing like that to me!" "Why not?" I answered. "She's got a cunt, your sister, hasn't she?" I was about to add something else when he broke into a terrific fit of laughter. That saved the situation, for the time being. But Maxie didn't like the idea at all deep down. All day long it bothered him, though he never referred to our conversation again. No, he was very silent that day. The only form of revenge he could think of was to urge me to swim far beyond the safety zone in the hope of tiring me out and letting me drown. I could see so clearly what was in his mind that I was possessed11 with the strength of ten men. Damned if I would go drown myself just because his sister like all other women happened to have a cunt.
It was at Far Rockaway where this took place. After we had dressed and eaten a meal I suddenly decided12 that I wanted to be alone and so, very abruptly13, at the comer of a street. I shook hands and said good-bye. And there I was! Almost instantaneously I felt alone in the world, alone as one feels only in moments of extreme anguish15. I think I was picking my teeth absentmindedly when this wave of loneliness hit me full on, like a tornado16. I stood there on the street comer and sort of felt myself all over to see if I had been hit by something. It was inexplicable17, and at the same time it was very wonderful,very exhilarating, like a double tonic18, I might say. When I say that I was at Far Rockaway I mean that I was standing19 at the end of the earth, at a place called Xanthos, if there be such a place, and surely there ought to be a word like this to express no place at all. If Rita had come along then I don't think I would have recognized her. I had become an absolute stranger standing in the very midst of my own people. They looked crazy to me, my people, with their newly sunbumed faces and their flannel20 trousers and their dock-work stockings. They had been bathing like myself because it was a pleasant, healthy recreation and now like myself they were full of sun and food and a little heavy with fatigue21. Up until this loneliness hit me I too was a bit weary, but suddenly, standing there completely shut off from the world, I woke up with a start I became so electrified22 that I didn't dare move for fear I would charge like a bull or start to climb the wall of a building or else dance and scream. Suddenly I realized that all this was because I was really a brother to Dostoievski, that perhaps I was the only man in all America who knew what he meant in writing those books. Not only that, but I felt all the books I would one day write myself germinating23 inside me: they were bursting inside like ripe cocoons24. And since up to this time I had written nothing but fiendishly long letters about everything and nothing, it was difficult for me to realize that there must come a time when I should begin, when I should put down the first word, the first-real word.And this time was now! That was what dawned on me.
I used the word Xanthos a moment ago. I don't know whether there is a Xanthos or not, and I really don't care one way or another, but there must be a place in the world, perhaps in the Grecian islands, where you come to the end of the known world and you are thoroughly25 alone and yet you are not frightened of it but rejoice, because at this dropping off place you can feel the old ancestral world which is eternally young and new and fecundating. You stand there, wherever the place is, like a newly hatched chick beside its eggshell. This place is Xanthos, or as it happened in my case. Far Rockaway.
There I was! It grew dark, a wind came up, the streets became deserted26, and finally it began to pour cats and dogs. Jesus, that finished me! When the rain came down, and I got it smack27 in the face staring at thesky, I suddenly began to bellow28 with joy. I laughed and laughed and laughed, exactly like an insane man. Nor did I know what I was laughing about. I wasn't thinking of a thing. I was just overwhelmed with joy, just crazy with delight in finding myself absolutely alone. If then and there a nice juicy quim had been handed me on a platter, if all the quims in the world had been afforded me for to make my choice, I wouldn't have batted an eyelash. I had what no quim could give me. And just about at that point, thoroughly drenched29 but still exultant30, I thought of the most irrelevant31 thing in the world - carfare!Jesus, the bastard32 Maxie had walked off without leaving me a sou. There I was with my fine budding antique world and not a penny in my jeans. Herr Dostoievski Junior had now to begin to walk here and there peering into friendly and un-friendly faces to see if he could pry33 loose a dime34. He walked from one end of Far Rockaway to the other but nobody seemed to give a fuck about handing out carfare in the rain. Walking about in that heavy animal stupor35 which comes with begging I got to thinking of Maxie the window-trimmer and how the first time I spied him he was standing in the show-window dressing8 a mannikin. And from that in a few minutes to Dostoievski, then the world stopped dead, and then, like a great rose bush opening in the night, his sister Rita's warm, velvety36 flesh.
Now this what is rather strange ... A few minutes after I thought of Rita, her private and extraordinary quim, I was in the train bound for New York and dozing37 off with a marvellous languid erection. And stranger still, when I got out of the train, when I had walked but a block or two from the station, whom should I bump into rounding a comer but Rita herself. And as though she had been informed telepathically of what was going on in my brain, Rita too was hot under the whiskers. Soon we were sitting in a chop suey joint38, seated side by side in a little booth, behaving exactly like a pair of rabbits in rut. On the dance floor we hardly moved. We were wedged in tight and we stayed that way, letting them jog and jostle us about as they might. I could have taken her home to my place, as I was alone at the time, but no, I had a notion to bring her back to her own home, stand her up in the vestibule and give her a fuck right under Maxie's nose - which I did. In the midst of it I thought again of the mannikin in the show window and of the way he had laughed that afternoon when I let drop the word quim. I was on the point of laughing aloud when suddenly I felt that she was coming, one of those long drawn-out orgasms such as you get now and then in a Jewish cunt. I had my hands under her buttocks, the tips of my fingers just inside her cunt, in the lining39, as it were; as she began to shudder40 I lifted her from the ground and raised her gently up and down on the end of my cock. I thought she would go off her nut completely, the way she began to carry on. She must have had four or five orgasms like that in the air, before I put her feet down on the ground. I took it out without spilling a drop and made her lie down in the vestibule. Her hat had rolled off into a corner and her bag had spilled open and a few coins had tumbled out. I note this because just before I gave it to her good and proper I made a mental note to pocket a few coins for my carfare home. Anyway, it was only a few hours since I had said to Maxie in the bath house that I would like to take a look at his sister's quim, and here it was now smack, up against me, sopping41 wet and throwing out one squirt after another. If she had been fucked before she had never been fucked properly, that's a cinch. And I myself was never in such a fine cool collected scientific frame of mind as now lying on the floor of the vestibule right under Maxie's nose, pumping it into the private, sacred, and extraordinary quim of his sister Rita. I could have held it in indefinitely - it was incredible how detached I was and yet thoroughly aware of every quiver and jolt42 she made. But somebody had to pay for making me walk around in the rain grubbing a dime. Somebody had to pay for the ecstasy43 produced by the germination44 of all those unwritten books inside me. Somebody had to verify the authenticity45 of this private, concealed46 cunt which had been plaguing me for weeks and months. Who better qualified47 than I? I thought so hard and fast between orgasms that my cock must have grown another inch or two. Finally I decided to make an end of it by turning her over and back-scuttling her. She balked48 a bit at first, but when she felt the thing slipping out of her she nearly went crazy. "Oh yes, oh yes, do it, do it!" she gibbered, and with that I really got excited, I had hardly slipped it into her when I felt it coming, one of those long agonizing49 spurts50 from the tip of the spinal51 column. I shoved it in so deep that I felt as if something had given way. We fell over, exhausted52, the both of us, and panted like dogs. At the same time, however, I had the presence of mind to feel around for a few coins. Not that it was necessary, because she had already loaned me a few dollars, but to make up for the carfare which I was lacking in Far Rockaway. Even then, by Jesus, it Wasn't finished. Soon I felt her groping about, first with her hands, then with her mouth. I had still a sort of semi hard-on. She got it into her mouth and she began to caress53 it with her tongue. I saw stars. The next thing I knew her feet were around my neck and my tongue up her twat. And then I had to get over her again and shove it in, up to the hilt. She squirmed around like an eel14, so help me God. And then she began to come again, long, drawn-out, agonizing orgasms, with a whimpering and gibbering that was hallucinating. Finally I had to pull it out and tell her to stop. What a quim! And I had only asked to take a look at it!
Maxie with his talk of Odessa revived something which I had lost as a child. Though I had never a very dear picture of Odessa the aura of it was like the little neighbourhood in Brooklyn which meant so much to me and from which I had been torn away too soon. I get a very definite feeling of it every time I see an Italian painting without perspective: if it is a picture of a funeral procession, for example, it is exactly the sort of experience which I knew as a child, one of intense immediacy. If it is a picture of the open street, the women sitting in the windows are sitting onthe street and not above it and away from it. Everything that happens is known immediately by everybody, just as among primitive54 people. Murder is in the air, chance rules.
Just as in the Italian primitives55 this perspective is lacking, so in the little old neighbourhood from which I was uprooted56 as a child there were these parallel vertical57 planes on which everything took place and through which, from layer to layer, everything was communicated, as if by osmosis. The frontiers were sharp, dearly defined, but they were not impassable. I lived then, as a boy, dose to the boundary between the north and the south side. I was just a little bit over on the north side, just a few steps from a broad thoroughfare called North Second Street, which was for me the real boundary line between the north and the south side. The actual boundary was Grand Street, which led to Broadway Ferry, but this street meant nothing to me, except that it was already beginning to be filled with Jews. No, North Second Street was the mystery street, the frontier between two worlds. I was living, therefore, between two boundaries, the one real, the other imaginary - as I have lived all my life. There was a little street, just a block long which lay between Grand Street and North Second Street, called Fillmore Place. This little street was obliquely58 opposite the house my grandfather owned and in which we lived. It was the most enchanting59 street I have ever seen in all my life. It was the ideal street - for a boy, a lover, a maniac60, a drunkard, a crook61, a lecher, a thug, an astronomer62, a musician, a poet, a tailor, a shoemaker, a politician. In fact this was just the sort of street it was, containing just such representatives of the human race, each one a world unto himself and all living together harmoniously63 and inharmoniously, but together,a solid corporation, a dose-knit human spore64 which could not disintegrate65 unless the street itself disintegrated66.
So it seemed, at least. Until the Williamsburg Bridge was opened, whereupon there followed the invasion of the Jews from Delancey Street, New York. This brought about the disintegration67 of our little world, of the little street called Fillmore Place, which like the name itself was a street of value, of dignity, of light, of surprises. The Jews came, as I say, and like moths69 they began to eat into the fabric70 of our lives until there was nothing left by this moth68-like presence which they brought with them everywhere. Soon the street began to smell bad, soon the real people moved away, soon the houses began to deteriorate71 and even the stoops fell away, like the paint. Soon the street looked like a dirty mouth with all the prominent teeth missing, with ugly charred72 stumps73 gaping74 here and there, the lips rotting, the palate gone. Soon the garbage was knee deep in the gutter75 and the fire escapes filled with bloated bedding, with cockroaches76, with dried blood. Soon the Kosher sign appeared on the shop windows and there was poultry77 everywhere and lax and sour pickles78 and enormous loaves of bread. Soon there were baby-carriages in every areaway and on the stoops and in the little yards and before the shop fronts. And with the change the English language also disappeared; one heard nothing but Yiddish, nothing but this sputtering79, choking, hissing80 tongue in which God and rotten vegetables sound alike and mean alike.
We were among the first families to move away, following the invasion. Two or three times a year I came back to the old neighbourhood, for a birthday or for Christmas or Thanksgiving. With each visit I marked the loss of something I had loved and cherished. It was like a bad dream. It got worse and worse. The house in which my relatives still lived was like an old fortress81 going to ruin; they were stranded82 in one of the wings of the fortress, maintaining a forlorn, island life, beginning themselves to look sheepish, hunted, degraded. They even began to make distinctions between their Jewish neighbours, finding some of them quite human, quite decent, dean, kind, sympathetic, charitable, etc. etc. To me it was heartrending. I could have taken a machine gun and mowed83 the whole neighbourhood down, Jew and Gentile together.
It was about the time of the invasion that the authorities decided to change the name of North Second Street to Metropolitan84 Avenue. This highway, which to the Gentiles had been the road to the cemeteries85, now became what is called an artery86 of traffic, a link between two ghettoes. On the New York side the riverfront was rapidly being transformed owing to the erection of the skyscrapers87. On our side, the Brooklyn side, the warehouses88 were piling up and the approaches to the various new bridges created plazas89, comfort stations, pool rooms, stationery90 shops, ice cream parlours, restaurants, clothing stores, hock shops, etc. In short everything was becoming metropolitan,in the odious91 sense of the word.
As long as we lived in the old neighbourhood we never referred to Metropolitan Avenue: it was always North Second Street, despite the official change of name. Perhaps it was eight or ten years later, when I stood one winter's day at the corner of the street facing the river and noticed for the first time the great tower of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Building, that I realized that North Second Street was no more. The imaginary boundary of my world had changed. My lance travelled now far beyond the cemeteries, far beyond the rivers, far beyond the city of New York or the State of New York, beyond the whole United States indeed. At Point Loma, California, I had looked out upon the broad Pacific and I had felt something there which kept my face permanently92 screwed in another direction. I came back to the old neighbourhood, I remember, one night with my old friend Stanley who had just come out of the army, and we walked the streets sadly and wistfully. A European can scarcely know what this feeling is like. Even when a town becomes modernized93, in Europe, there are still vestiges94 of the old. In America, though there are vestiges, they are effaced95, wiped out of the consciousness, trampled96 upon, obliterated97, nullified by the new. The new is, from day to day, a moth which eats into the fabric of life, leaving nothing finally but a great hole. Stanley and I, we were walking through this terrifying hole. Even a war does not bring this kind of desolation and destruction. Through war a town may be reduced to ashes and the entire population wiped out, but what springs up again resembles the old. Death is fecundating, for the soil as well as for the spirit. In America the destruction is completely annihilating98. There is no rebirth only a cancerous growth, layer upon layer of new, poisonous tissue, each one uglier than the previous one.
We were walking through this enormous hole, as I say, and it was a winter's night, dear, frosty, sparkling, and as we came through the south side towards the boundary line we saluted99 all the old relics100 or the spots where things had once stood and where there had been once something of ourselves. And as we approached North Second Street, between Fillmore Place and North Second Street - a distance of only a few yards and yet such a rich, full area of the globe - before Mrs. O'Melio's shanty101 I stopped and looked up at the house where I had known what it was to really have a being. Everything had shrunk now to diminutive102 proportions, including the world which lay beyond the boundary line, the world which had been so mysterious to me and so terrifyingly grand, so delimited. Standing there in a trance I suddenly recalled a dream which I have had over and over, which I still dream now and then, and which I hope to dream as long as I live. It was the dream of passing the boundary line. As in all dreams the remarkable103 thing is the vividness of the reality, the fad104 that one is in realityand not dreaming. Across the line I am unknown and absolutely alone. Even the language has changed. In fact, I am always regarded as a stranger, a foreigner. I have unlimited105 time on my hands and I am absolutely content in sauntering through the streets. There is only onestreet, I must say - the continuation of the street on which I lived. I come finally to an iron bridge over the railroad yards. It is always nightfall when I reach the bridge, though it is only a short distance from the boundary line. Here I look down upon the webbed tracks, the freight stations, the tenders, the storage sheds, and as I gaze down upon this duster of strange moving substances a process of metamorphosis takes place, just as in a dream.With the transformation106 and deformation107 I become aware that this is the old dream which I have dreamed so often. I have a wild fear that I shall wake up, and indeed I know that I will wake up shortly, just at the moment when in the midst of a great open space I am about to walk into the house which contains something of the greatest importance for me. Just as I go towards this house the lot on which I am standing begins to grow vague at the edges, to dissolve, to vanish. Space rolls in on me like a carpet and swallows me up, and with it of course the house which I never succeed in entering.
There is absolutely no transition from this, the most pleasurable dream I know to the heart of a book called Creative Evolution.In this book by Henri Bergson, which I came to as naturally as to the dream of the land beyond the boundary, I am again quite alone, again a foreigner, again a man of indeterminate age standing on an iron bridge observing a peculiar108 metamorphosis without and within. If this book had not fallen into my hands at the precise moment it did, perhaps I would have gone mad. It came at a moment when another huge world was crumbling109 on my hands. If I had never understood a thing which was written in this book, if I had preserved only the memory of one word, creative,it is quite sufficient. This word was my talisman110. With it I was able to defy the whole world, and especially my friends.
There are times when one must break with one's friends in order to understand the meaning of friendship. It may seem strange to say so, but the discovery of this book was equivalent to the discovery of a weapon, an implement111, wherewith I might lop off all the friends who surrounded me and who no longer meant anything to me. This book became my friend because it taught me that I had no need of friends. It gave me the courage to stand alone, and it enabled me to appreciate loneliness. I have never understood the book; at times I thought I was on the point of understanding, but I never really did understand. It was more important for me not to understand. With this book in my hands, reading aloud to my friends, questioning them, explaining to them, I was made clearly to understand that I had no friends, that I was alone in the world. Because in not understanding the meaning of the words, neither I nor my friends, one thing became very clear and that was that there were ways of not understanding and that the difference between the non-understanding of one individual and the non-understanding of another created a world of terra firma even more solid than differences of understanding. Everything which before I thought I had understood crumbled112, and I was left with a dean slate113. My friends, on the other hand, entrenched114 themselves more solidly in the little ditch of understanding which they had dug for themselves. They died comfortably in their little bed of understanding, to become useful citizens of the world. I pitied them, and in short order.
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nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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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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tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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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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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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germinating
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| n.& adj.发芽（的）v.（使）发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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cocoons
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thoroughly
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deserted
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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bellow
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drenched
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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irrelevant
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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41
sopping
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| adj. 浑身湿透的 动词sop的现在分词形式 | |
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42
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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43
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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44
germination
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| n.萌芽，发生；萌发；生芽；催芽 | |
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45
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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46
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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47
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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48
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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49
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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50
spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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51
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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52
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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53
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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54
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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primitives
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| 原始人（primitive的复数形式） | |
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56
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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57
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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58
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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59
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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60
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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61
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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62
astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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63
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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64
spore
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| n.(无花植物借以繁殖的)孢子，芽胞 | |
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65
disintegrate
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| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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66
disintegrated
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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68
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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69
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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70
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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71
deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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72
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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73
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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74
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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75
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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78
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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79
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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80
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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81
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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82
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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83
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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85
cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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86
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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87
skyscrapers
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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88
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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89
plazas
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| n.（尤指西班牙语城镇的）露天广场( plaza的名词复数 )；购物中心 | |
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90
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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91
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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92
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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93
modernized
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的过去式和过去分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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94
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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95
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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96
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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97
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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98
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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99
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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100
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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101
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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102
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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103
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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104
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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105
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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106
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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107
deformation
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| n.形状损坏；变形；畸形 | |
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108
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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109
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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110
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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111
implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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112
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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113
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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114
entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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