The leaves had begun to change color, turning the ride through West Newton into a portrait of gold and rust1. Back in Detroit, the labor2 war had stagnated3, with each side accusing the other of failing to communicate. The stories on the TV news were just as depressing. In rural Kentucky, three men threw pieces of a tombstone off a bridge, smashing the windshield of a passing car, killing5 a teenage girl who was traveling with her family on a religious pilgrimage. In California, the O. J. Simpson trial was heading toward a conclusion, and the whole country seemed to be obsessed6. Even in airports, there were hanging TV sets tuned7 to CNN so that you could get an O.J. update as you made your way to a gate.
I had tried calling my brother in Spain several times. I left messages saying that I really wanted to talk to him, that I had been doing a lot of thinking about us. A few weeks later, I got back a short message saying everything was okay, but he was sorry, he really didn't feel like talking about being sick.
For my old professor, it was not the talk of being sick but the being sick itself that was sinking him. Since my last visit, a nurse had inserted a catheter into his penis, which drew the urine out through a tube and into a bag that sat at the foot of his chair. His legs needed constant tending (he could still feel pain, even though he could not move them, another one of ALS's cruel little ironies), and unless his feet dangled8 just the right number of inches off the foam9 pads, it felt as if someone were poking10 him with a fork. In the middle of conversations, Morrie would have to ask visitors to lift his foot and move it just an inch, or to adjust his head so that it fit more easily into the palm of the colored pillows. Can you imagine being unable to move your own head?
With each visit, Morrie seemed to be melting into his chair, his spine11 taking on its shape. Still, every morning he insisted on being lifted from his bed and wheeled to his study, deposited there among his books and papers and the hibiscus plant on the windowsill. In typical fashion, he found something philosophical12 in this.
"I sum it up in my newest aphorism," he said. Let me hear it.
"When you're in bed, you're dead."
He smiled. Only Morrie could smile at something like that.
He had been getting calls from the "Nightline" people and from Ted4 Koppel himself.
"They want to come and do another show with me," he said. "But they say they want to wait."
Until what? You're on your last breath? "Maybe. Anyhow, I'm not so far away." Don't say that.
"I'm sorry."
That bugs13 me, that they want to wait until you wither14.
"It bugs you because you look out for me."
He smiled. "Mitch, maybe they are using me for a little drama. That's okay. Maybe I'm using them, too. They help me get my message to millions of people. I couldn't do that without them, right? So it's a compromise."
He coughed, which turned into a long-drawn15-out gargle, ending with another glob into a crushed tissue. "Anyhow," Morrie said, "I told them they better not wait too long, because my voice won't be there. Once this thing hits my lungs, talking may become impossible. I can't speak for too long without needing a rest now. I have already canceled a lot of the people who want to see me. Mitch, there are so many. But I'm too fatigued16. If I can't give them the right attention, I can't help them." I looked at the tape recorder, feeling guilty, as if I were stealing what was left of his precious speaking time. "Should we skip it?" I asked. "Will it make you too tired?"
Morrie shut his eyes and shook his head. He seemed to be waiting for some silent pain to pass. "No," he finally said. "You and I have to go on.
"This is our last thesis together, you know." Our last thesis.
"We want to get it right."
I thought about our first thesis together, in college. It was Morrie's idea, of course. He told me I was good enough to write an honors project-something I had never considered.
Now here we were, doing the same thing once more. Starting with an idea. Dying man talks to living man, tells him what he should know. This time, I was in less of a hurry to finish.
"Someone asked me an interesting question yesterday," Morrie said now, looking over my shoulder at the wallhanging behind me, a quilt of hopeful messages that friends had stitched for him on his seventieth birthday. Each patch on the quilt had a different message: STAY THE COURSE, THE BEST IS YET TO BE, MORRIE-ALWAYS NO. 1 IN MENTAL HEALTH!
What was the question? I asked.
"If I worried about being forgotten after I died?" Well? Do you?
"I don't think I will be. I've got so many people who have been involved with me in close, intimate ways. And love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone."
Sounds like a song lyric-"love is how you stay alive."
Morrie chuckled18. "Maybe. But, Mitch, all this talk that we're doing? Do you ever hear my voice sometimes when you're back home? When you're all alone? Maybe on the plane? Maybe in your car?"
Yes, I admitted.
"Then you will not forget me after I'm gone. Think of my voice and I'll be there."
Think of your voice.
"And if you want to cry a little, it's okay."
Morrie. He had wanted to make me cry since I was a freshman19. "One of these days, I'm gonna get to you," he would say.
Yeah, yeah, I would answer.
"I decided20 what I wanted on my tombstone," he said.
I don't want to hear about tombstones. "Why? They make you nervous?"
"We can forget it."
No, go ahead. What did you decide?
Morrie popped his lips. "I was thinking of this: A Teacher to the Last."
He waited while I absorbed it.
A Teacher to the Last.
"Good?" he said.
Yes, I said. Very good.
I came to love the way Morrie lit up when I entered the room. He did this for many people, I know, but it was his special talent to make each visitor feel that the smile was unique.
"Ahhhh, it's my buddy," he would say when he saw me, in that foggy, high-pitched voice. And it didn't stop with the greeting. When Morrie was with you, he was really with you. He looked you straight in the eye, and he listened as if you were the only person in the world. How much better would people get along if their first encounter each day were like this-instead of a grumble22 from a waitress or a bus driver or a boss?
"I believe in being fully23 present," Morrie said. "That means you should be with the person you're with. When I'm talking to you now, Mitch, I try to keep focused only on what is going on between us. I am not thinking about something we said last week. I am not thinking of what's coming up this Friday. I am not thinking about doing another Koppel show, or about what medications I'm taking.
"I am talking to you. I am thinking about you."
I remembered how he used to teach this idea in the Group Process class back at Brandeis. I had scoffed24 back then, thinking this was hardly a lesson plan for a university course. Learning to pay attention? How important could that be? I now know it is more important than almost everything they taught us in college.
Morrie motioned for my hand, and as I gave it to him, I felt a surge of guilt17. Here was a man who, if he wanted, could spend every waking moment in self-pity, feeling his body for decay, counting his breaths. So many people with far smaller problems are so self-absorbed, their eyes glaze25 over if you speak for more than thirty seconds. They already have something else in mind-a friend to call, a fax to send, a lover they're daydreaming26 about. They only snap back to full attention when you finish talking, at which point they say "Uh-huh" or "Yeah, really" and fake their way back to the moment.
"Part of the problem, Mitch, is that everyone is in such a hurry," Morrie said. "People haven't found meaning in their lives, so they're running all the time looking for it. They think the next car, the next house, the next job. Then they find those things are empty, too, and they keep running."
Once you start running, I said, it's hard to slow yourself down.
"Not so hard," he said, shaking his head. "Do you know what I do? When someone wants to get ahead of me in traffic-when I used to be able to drive-I would raise my hand . . ."
He tried to do this now, but the hand lifted weakly, only six inches.
" . . . I would raise my hand, as if I was going to make a negative gesture, and then I would wave and smile. Instead of giving them the finger, you let them go, and you smile.
"You know what? A lot of times they smiled back. "The truth is, I don't have to be in that much of a hurry with my car. I would rather put my energies into people."
He did this better than anyone I'd ever known. Those who sat with him saw his eyes go moist when they spoke27 about something horrible, or crinkle in delight when they told him a really bad joke. He was always ready to openly display the emotion so often missing from my baby boomer generation. We are great at small talk: "What do you do?" "Where do you live?" But really listening to someone-without trying to sell them something, pick them up, recruit them, or get some kind of status in return-how often do we get this anymore? I believe many visitors in the last few months of Morrie's life were drawn not because of the attention they wanted to pay to him but because of the attention he paid to them. Despite his personal pain and decay, this little old man listened the way they always wanted someone to listen.
I told him he was the father everyone wishes they had.
"Well," he said, closing his eyes, "I have some experience in that area . . ."
The last time Morrie saw his own father was in a city morgue. Charlie Schwartz was a quiet man who liked to read his newspaper, alone, under a streetlamp on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. Every night, when Morrie was little, Charlie would go for a walk after dinner. He was a small Russian man, with a ruddy complexion28 and a full head of grayish hair. Morrie and his brother, David, would look out the window and see him leaning against the lamppost, and Morrie wished he would come inside and talk to them, but he rarely did. Nor did he tuck them in, nor kiss them good-night.
Morrie always swore he would do these things for his own children if he ever had any. And years later, when he had them, he did.
Meanwhile, as Morrie raised his own children, Charlie was still living in the Bronx. He still took that walk. He still read the paper. One night, he went outside after dinner. A few blocks from home, he was accosted29 by two robbers.
"Give us your money," one said, pulling a gun. Frightened, Charlie threw down his wallet and began to run. He ran through the streets, and kept running until he reached the steps of a relative's house, where he collapsed30 on the porch.
Heart attack.
He died that night.
Morrie was called to identify the body. He flew to New York and went to the morgue. He was taken downstairs, to the cold room where the corpses31 were kept.
"Is this your father?" the attendant asked.
Morrie looked at the body behind the glass, the body of the man who had scolded him and molded him and taught him to work, who had been quiet when Morrie wanted him to speak, who had told Morrie to swallow his memories of his mother when he wanted to share them with the world.
He nodded and he walked away. The horror of the room, he would later say, sucked all other functions out of him. He did not cry until days later.
Still, his father's death helped prepare Morrie for his own. This much he knew: there would be lots of holding and kissing and talking and laughter and no good-byes left unsaid, all the things he missed with his father and his mother.
When the final moment came, Morrie wanted his loved ones around him, knowing what was happening. No one would get a phone call, or a telegram, or have to look through a glass window in some cold and foreign basement.
In the South American rain forest, there is a tribe called the Desana, who see the world as a fixed32 quantity of energy that flows between all creatures. Every birth must therefore engender33 a death, and every death bring forth34 another birth. This way, the energy of the world remains35 complete.
When they {hunt for food, the Desana know that the animals they kill will leave a hole in the spiritual well. But that hole will be filled, they believe, by the souls of the Desana hunters when they die. Were there no men dying, there would be no birds orfish being born. I like this idea. Morrie likes it, too. The closer he gets to good-bye, the more he seems to feel we are all creatures in the same forest. What we take, we must replenish36.
"It's only fair," he says.
树叶开始变颜色了，把西纽顿的林中骑马道染成了一幅金黄色的画。底特律那边，工会发动的那场战争陷入了僵局，双方都指责对方对谈判没有诚意。电视上的新闻也同样令人沮丧。在肯塔基，三个男子从公路桥上往下扔墓碑石块，石块击碎了从下面驶过的一辆汽车的玻璃窗，砸死了一个同家人一起去朝圣的十几岁女孩。在加州，0•J•辛普森一案正接近尾声，全国上下似乎都在关注这件事。就连机场里的电视机也都在播放有线电视网的节目，使你进出机场时也能了解这一案子的最新动态。
我给西班牙的弟弟打了几次电话，留话说我真的很想同他谈谈，我一直在想我们俩的事，几个星期后，我收到了他短短的留言，说他一切都好，但他实在不想谈论病情，很抱歉。
对我的教授来说，折磨他的倒不是对病情的谈论，而是疾病本身。就在我上次探访他之后，护士给他插了导尿管，他的小便通过管子流进椅子旁边的一个塑料袋。他的腿需要不停地按摩（虽然他的腿不能动弹，但依然有疼痛感，这是这种疾病又一个既残酷又具有讽刺意味的特征），他的脚也必须悬离海绵垫子几英寸，否则的话就像有人在用叉子戳他的脚，往往谈话进行到一半时，他就要让来访者移动一下他的脚，或调整一下他埋在花色枕头里的头的位置。你能想象头不能动弹的情形吗？
每次去看他，莫里总显得越来越坐不直身子，他的脊椎已经变了形。但每天早上他还是坚持让人把他从床上拖起来，用轮椅推他进书房，留他与那些书本，纸张和窗台上的木槿在一起。他在这种独特的生活方式里发现了某些带有哲理性的东西。
"我把它总结进了我的格言，"他说。
说给我听听。
"当你在床上时，你是个死人。"
他笑了。只有莫里能笑对这种苦涩的幽默。
他经常收到"夜线"节目的制作人员以及特德本人打来的电话。
"他们想再制作一档节目，"他说。"但他们说还想等一等。"
等到什么时候？等你还剩下最后一口气？
"也许吧。反正我也快了。"
别说这种话。
"对不起。"
我有些忿然：他们竟然要等到你的最后阶段。
"你感到生气是因为你在守护我。"
他笑了。"米奇，也许他们是想利用我增加点戏剧效果。没什么，我也在利用他们。他们可以把我的信息带给数以万计的观众。没有他们我可做不到这一点，是不是？所以，就算是我的让步吧。"
他咳嗽起来，接着是一阵长长的喘气。末了，一口痰吐在了揉皱了的手中纸里。
"反正，"莫里说，"我让他们别等得太久。因为我的声音很快就会消失的。它一旦侵入我的肺部，我就不能开口了。我现在说上一会儿就要喘气。我已经取消了很多约会。米奇，许多人想来探望我，可我感到太疲倦了。如果我不能集中精力和他们交谈，我就帮不了他们。"
我看了一眼录音机，心里有一种负罪感，好像我是在偷窃他所剩无几的。宝贵的说话时间。"我们就此结束好吗？"我问。"你会不会太累？"
莫里闭上眼睛，摇摇头。他似乎在熬过一阵无声的痛楚。"不，"他最后说。"你和我得继续下去。
"你知道，这是我们的最后一篇论文。"
我们的最后一篇。
"我们得完成它。"
我想起了我们在大学里共同完成的第一篇论文。当然，那是莫里的主意。他说我可以写一篇优等生论文--这是我从来没有想过的。
此刻，我们在这里重复着十几年前的事。先立一个论点。由一个垂死的人对一个活着的人讲述他必须知道的东西。只是这一次我的论文没有时间的限制。
"昨天有人向我提了一个很有趣的问题，"莫里望着我身后的一块壁毯说，壁毯上拼着一条条朋友们为他七十大寿而写的题词。每一块拼贴上去的布条上都绣着不同的话：自始至终。百尺竿头。莫里--心理永远最健康的人！
什么问题，我问。
"我是不是担心死后会被遗忘？"
你担心吗？
"我想我不会。有那么多人亲近无比地介入了我的生活。爱是永存的感情，即使你离开了人世，你也活在人们的心里。"
听起来像一首歌--"爱是永存的感情。"
莫里咯咯地笑了。"也许吧。可是，米奇，就拿我们之间的谈话来说吧，你有时在家里是否也会听见我的声音？当你一个人的时候？或在飞机上？或在车子里？"
是的，我承认说。
"那么我死了以后你也不会忘记我的，只要想起我的声音，我就会出现在那儿。"
想起你的声音。
"如果你想掉几滴眼泪，也没关系。"
莫里，他在我上大学一年级时就想叫我哭。"有那么一天我会打动你的心肠的，"他常对我说。
好吧，好吧，我说。
"我决定了我的碑文怎么写，"他说。
我不想听见墓碑这个词。
"为什么？它让你感到紧张？"
我耸了耸肩。
"那我们就别提它。"
不，说下去。你决定怎么写？
莫里咂了咂嘴唇，"我想这么写：一个终生的教师。"
他等着让我去回味这句话。
一个终生的教师。
"好吗？"他问。
是的，我说，好极了。
我喜欢上了进门时莫里迎向我的笑脸。我知道，他对其他人都这样。可他能使每个来访者都感觉到他迎向你的笑是很独特的。
"哈哈，我的老朋友来了，"他一看见我就会用含混、尖细的声音招呼我。可这仅仅是个开头。当莫里和你在一起时，他会全身心地陪伴你。他注视着你的眼睛，倾听你的说话，那专心致志的神态就仿佛你是世界上唯一的人。要是人们每天的第一次见面都能像遇见莫里那样--而不是来自女招待，司机或老板的漫不经心的咕哝声，那生活一定会美好得多。
"我喜欢全身心地投入，"莫里说。"就是说你应该真正地和他在一起。当我现在同你交谈时，米奇，我就尽力把注意力集中在我们的谈话上。我不去想上个星期我们的会面，我不去想星期五要发生的事，我也不去想科佩尔要制作的另一档节目或我正在接受的药物治疗。
"我在和你说话。我想的只有你。"
我回想起在布兰代斯的时候，他在小组疗程课上常常教授这一观点。我那时候颇不以为然，心想这也算是大学的课程？学会怎样集中注意力？这有多少重要性可谈的？可我现在意识到它要比大学里的其它任何一门课都来得重要。
莫里示意我把手伸给他，当我这么做的时候，我心中不禁涌起了一股愧意。坐在我面前的是一个有理由去哀叹自己的痛苦和不幸的老人；只要他想这么做，他可以用醒来后的每一分钟去触摸他日益枯谢的躯体，去计算他呼吸的频率。然而，有那么多人仅仅为了一些琐事而如此的自我专注，他们的眼光只停留在你身上三十秒钟便游离开去。他们早已驰心旁骛--给某个朋友打电话，给某个地方发传真，或跟某个情人约次会。只有当你的话说完时，他们才猛地回过神来，和你"嗯嗯啊啊"、"是的是的"地敷衍几句。
"问题的部分症结，米奇，在于他们活得太匆忙了，"莫里说。"他们没有找到生活的意义所在，所以忙着在寻找。他们想到了新的车子，新的房子，新的工作。但过后他们发现这些东西同样是空的，于是他们重又奔忙起来。"
你一旦奔忙起来，我说，就很难再停得下。
"并不怎么难，"他摇摇头说。"你知道我是怎么做的？当有人想超我的车时--那还是在我能开车的时候--我就举起手……"
他想做这个动作，可手只抬起了六英寸。
"……我举起手，似乎要作出不太友善的手势，但随后我挥挥手，一笑了之。你不对他举起手指，而是让他过去，你就能一笑了之。
"知道吗？很多时候对方也会用笑来回答你。
"实际上，我不必那么急着开我的车。我情愿把精力放在与人的交流上。"
他在这方面是做得极其出色的。你和他谈论不幸的事情时，他的眼睛会变得湿润；你和他开一个哪怕是蹩脚的玩笑时，他的眼睛会笑成一条缝。他随时向你但露他的感情，而这正是我们这一代人所缺少的品质。我们很会敷衍："你是干什么的？""你住在哪儿？"可真正地去倾听--不带任何兜售，利用或想得到回报的动机和心理--我们能做到吗？我相信在莫里的最后几个月里来看望他的人，有许多是为了从莫里那儿得到他们需要的关注，而不是把他们的关注给予莫里。而这位羸弱的老人总是不顾个人的病痛和衰退在满足着他们。
我对他说他是每个人理想中的父亲。
"唔，"他闭上眼睛说，"在这方面我是有体验的……"
莫里最后一次见到他父亲是在一家市停尸所。查理•施瓦茨生性寡言，他喜欢一个人在布朗克斯区特里蒙德街的路灯下看报。莫里小的时候，查理每天晚饭后便出去散步。他是个小个子的俄罗斯人，面色红润，满满一头浅灰的鬈发。莫里和弟弟大卫从窗口望着靠在路灯柱上的父亲，奠里很希望他能进屋来和他们说说话，但他很少这么做。他也从不替兄弟俩掖被子，吻他们道晚安。
莫里一直发誓说，如果他有孩子的话，他一定会对他们做这些事的。几年后，他当了父亲，他确实这么做了。
就在莫里开始抚养自己的孩子时，查理仍住在布朗克斯区。他仍去散步，仍去看报。有一天晚上，他吃完饭后又出去了。在离家几个街区的地方他遇上了两个强盗。
"把钱拿出来，"其中一个举着枪说。
吓坏的查理扔下皮夹就跑。他穿过街道，一口气跑到了一个亲戚家的台阶上，倒在了门廊里。
心脏病发作。
他当晚就死了。
莫里被叫去认领尸体。他飞到纽约，去了那家停尸所。他被带到楼下存放尸体的那间冷气房。
"是不是你父亲？"工作人员问。
莫里看了一眼玻璃罩下面的尸体，正是那个责骂过他、影响过他、教他如何干活的人的尸体；他在莫里需要他说话时却一言不发，他在莫里想和别人一起共享对母亲的那份感情时却要他把回忆压抑在心里。
他点点头就走了。他后来说，房间里的恐怖气氛攫走了他所有感官能力。他过了几天才哭了出来。
但父亲的死却使莫里知道了该如何去准备人生的最后一段旅程。他至少懂得了：生活中应该有许多的拥抱、亲吻、交谈、欢笑和道别，而这一切他都没来得及从父亲和母亲那里得到。
当最后的时刻到来时，莫里会让所有他爱的人围在他的身边，亲眼看见发生的一切。没人会接到电话，或接到电报，或在某个既冷又陌生的地下室里隔着玻璃看他。
在南美的热带雨林中，有一个名叫迪萨那的部落，他们认为世界是个恒定的能量体，它在万物中流动。因此，一个生命的诞生就招致了另一个生命的终结，同样，每一个死亡也带来了另一个生命。世界的能量就这样保持着平衡。
当他们外出狩猎时，迪萨那人知道他们杀死的动物会在灵魂井里留下一个洞穴，这个洞穴将由死去的迪萨那猎手的灵魂去填补。如果没有人死去，就不会有鸟和鱼的诞生。我很赞同这个说法。莫里也很赞同。越接近告别的日子，他似乎越感到我们都是同一座森林里的生物。我们获取多少，就得补偿多少。
"这很公平，"他说。
收听单词发音 |
1
rust
|
|
| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
labor
|
|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
stagnated
|
|
| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
ted
|
|
| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
killing
|
|
| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
obsessed
|
|
| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
tuned
|
|
| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
dangled
|
|
| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
foam
|
|
| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
poking
|
|
| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
spine
|
|
| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
philosophical
|
|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
bugs
|
|
| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
wither
|
|
| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
fatigued
|
|
| adj. 疲乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
guilt
|
|
| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
chuckled
|
|
| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
freshman
|
|
| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
shrugged
|
|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
scoffed
|
|
| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
glaze
|
|
| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
daydreaming
|
|
| v.想入非非，空想( daydream的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
accosted
|
|
| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
collapsed
|
|
| adj.倒塌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
corpses
|
|
| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
engender
|
|
| v.产生，引起 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
replenish
|
|
| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |