* The Letters of Henry James. Edited by Percy Lubbock.
It must be admitted that these remarks scarcely seem called for by anything specially15 abstruse16 in the first few chapters. If ever a young American proved himself capable of giving a clear and composed account of his experiences in Europe during the seventies of the last century that young American was Henry James. He recounts his seeings and doings, his dinings out and meetings, his country house visits, like a guest too well-bred to show surprise even if he feels it. A “cosmopolitanized American,” as he calls himself, was far more likely, it appears, to find things flat than to find them surprising; to sink into the depths of English civilization as if it were a soft feather bed inducing sleep and warmth and security rather than shocks and sensations. Henry James, of course, was much too busy recording17 impressions to fall asleep; it only appears that he never did anything, and never met anyone, in those early days, capable of rousing him beyond the gay and sprightly18 mood so easily and amusingly sustained in his letters home. Yet he went everywhere; he met everyone, as the sprinkling of famous names and great occasions abundantly testify. Let one fair specimen19 suffice:Yesterday I dined with Lord Houghton — with Gladstone, Tennyson, Dr. Schliemann (the excavator of old Mycenae, &c.), and half a dozen other men of “high culture.” I sat next but one to the Bard20 and heard most of his talk, which was all about port wine and tobacco; he seems to know much about them, and can drink a whole bottle of port at a sitting with no incommodity. He is very swarthy and scraggy, and strikes one’ at first as much less handsome than his photos: but gradually you see that it’s a face of genius. He had I know not what simplicity21, speaks with a strange rustic22 accent and seemed altogether like a creature of some primordial24 English stock, a thousand miles away from American manufacture. Behold25 me after dinner conversing26 affably with Mr. Gladstone-not by my own seeking, but by the almost importunate27 affection of Lord H. But I was glad of a chance to feel the “personality” of a great political leader — or as G. is now thought here even, I think, by his partisans28, ex-leader. That of Gladstone is very fascinating — his urbanity extreme-his eye that of a man of genius — and his apparent self-surrender to what he is talking of without a flaw. He made a great impression on me — greater than anyone I have seen here: though ’tis perhaps owing to my NA?VETé, and unfamiliarity29 with statesmen. . . .
And so to the Oxford30 and Cambridge boat-race. The impression is well and brightly conveyed; what we miss, perhaps, is any body of resistance to the impression — any warrant for thinking that the receiving mind is other than a stretched white sheet. The best comment upon that comes in his own words a few pages later. “It is something to have learned how to write.” If we look upon many of these early pages as experiments in the art of writing by one whose standard of taste exacts that small things must be done perfectly31 before big things are even attempted, we shall understand that their perfection is of the inexpressive kind that often precedes a late maturity32. He is saying all that his means allow him to say. Moreover, he is saying it already, as most good letter writers learn to say it, not to an individual but to a chosen assembly. “It is, indeed, I think, the very essence of a good letter to be shown,” he wrote; “it is wasted if it is kept for ONE. . . . I give you full leave to read mine aloud at your soirees!” Therefore, if we refrain from quotation33, it is not that passages of the necessary quality are lacking. It is, rather, that while he writes charmingly, intelligently and adequately of this, that and the other, we begin by guessing and end by resenting the fact that his mind is elsewhere. It is not the dinner parties — a hundred and seven in one season — nor the ladies and gentlemen, nor even the Tennysons and the Gladstones that interest him primarily; the pageant34 passes before him: the impressions ceaselessly descend35; and yet as we watch we also wait for the clue, the secret of it all. It is, indeed, clear that if he discharged the duties of his position with every appearance of equanimity36 the choice of the position itself was one of momentous37 importance, constantly requiring examination, and, with its promise of different possibilities, harassing38 his peace till the end of time. On what spot of the civilized39 globe was he to settle? His vibrations40 and vacillations in front of that problem suffer much in our report of them, but in the early days the case against America was simply that “. . . it takes an old civilization to set a novelist in motion.”
Next, Italy presented herself; but the seductions of “the golden climate” were fatal to work. Paris had obvious advantages, but the drawbacks were equally positive —“I have seen almost nothing of the literary fraternity, and there are fifty reasons why I should not become intimate with them. I don’t like their wares41, and they don’t like any others; and, besides, they are not ACCUEILLANTS.” London exercised a continuous double pressure of attraction and repulsion to which finally he succumbed42, to the extent of making his headquarters in the metropolis43 without shutting his eyes to her faults. “I am attracted to London in spite of the long list of reasons why I should not be; I think it, on the whole, the best point of view in the world. . . . But the question is interminable.” When he wrote that, he was thirty-seven; a mature age; an age at which the native growing confidently in his own soil is already putting forth44 whatever flower fate ordains45 and natural conditions allow. But Henry James had neither roots nor soil; he was of the tribe of wanderers and aliens; a winged visitant, ceaselessly circling and seeking, unattached, uncommitted, ranging hither and thither46 at his own free will, and only at length precariously47 settling and delicately inserting his proboscis48 in the thickset lusty blossoms of the old garden beds.
Here, then, we distinguish one of the strains, always to some extent present in the letters before us, from which they draw their unlikeness to any others in the language, and, indeed, bring us at times to doubt whether they are “in the language” at all. If London is primarily a point of view, if the whole field of human activity is only a prospect49 and a pageant, then we cannot help asking, as the store of impressions heaps itself up, what is the aim of the spectator, what is the purpose of his hoard50? A spectator, alert, aloof51, endlessly interested, endlessly observant, Henry James undoubtedly52 was; but as obviously, though not so simply, the long drawn53 process of adjustment and preparation was from first to last controlled and manipulated by a purpose which, as the years went by, only dealt more powerfully and completely with the treasures of a more complex sensibility. Yet, when we look to find the purpose expressed, to see the material in the act of transmutation, we are met by silence, we are blindly waved outside. “To write a series of good little tales I deem ample work for a life time. It’s at least a relief to have arranged one’s life time.” The words are youthful, perhaps intentionally55 light but few and frail56 as they are, they have almost alone to bear the burden built upon them, to answer the questions and quiet the suspicions of those who insist that a writer must have a mission and proclaim it aloud. Scarcely for a moment does Henry James talk of his writing; never for an instant is the thought of it absent from his mind. Thus, in the letters to Stevenson abroad we hear behind everything else a brooding murmur57 of amazement58 and horror at the notion of living with savages59. How, he seems to be asking himself, while on the surface all is admiration60 and affection, can he endure it — how could I write my books if I lived in Samoa with savages? All refers to his writing; all points in to that preoccupation. But so far as actual statement goes the books might have sprung as silently and spontaneously as daffodils in spring. No notice is taken of their birth. Nor does it matter to him what people say. Their remarks are probably wide of the point, or if they have a passing truth they are uttered in unavoidable ignorance of the fact that each book is a step onward61 in a gradual process of evolution, the plan of which is onward only to the author himself. He remains62 inscrutable. silent, and assured.
How, then, are we to explain the apparent inconsistency of his disappointment when, some years later, the failure of THE BOSTONIANS and PRINCESS CASAMASSIMA brought him face to face with the fact that he was not destined63 to be a popular novelist —. . . I am still staggering [he wrote] a good deal under the mysterious and to me inexplicable64 injury wrought65 — apparently66 — upon my situation by my two last novels, the BOSTONIANS and the PRINCESS, from which I expected so much and derived67 so little. They have reduced the desire, and the demand, for my productions to zero — as I judge from the fact that though I have for a good while past been writing a number of good short things, I remain irremediably unpublished.
Compensations at once suggested themselves; he was “really in better form then ever” and found himself “holding the ‘critical world’ at large in singular contempt” but we have Mr. Lubbock’s authority for supposing that it was chiefly a desire to retrieve68 the failure of the novels that led him to strive so strenuously69, and in the end so disastrously70, for success upon the stage. Success and failure upon the lips of a man who never for a moment doubted the authenticity71 of his genius or for a second lowered his standard of the artist’s duty have not their ordinary meaning. Perhaps we may hold that failure in the sense that Henry James used it meant, more than anything, failure on the part of the public to receive. That was the public’s fault, but that did not lessen72 the catastrophe73 or make less desirable the vision of an order of things where the public gratefully and with understanding accepts at the artists’ hands what is, after all, the finest essence, transmuted74 and returned, of the public itself. When GUY DOMVILLE failed, and Henry James for one “abominable quarter of an hour” faced the “yelling barbarians” and “learned what could be the savagery76 of their disappointment that one wasn’t perfectly the SAME as everything else they had ever seen” he had no doubt of his genius; but he went home to reflect:I have felt for a long time past that I have fallen upon evil days — every sign and symbol of one’s being in the least wanted, anywhere or by anyone, having so utterly77 failed. A new generation, that I know not, and mainly prize not, has taken universal possession.
The public henceforward appeared to him, so far as it appeared at all, a barbarian75 crowd incapable78 of taking in their rude paws the beauty and delicacy79 that he had to offer. More and more was he confirmed in his conviction that an artist can neither live with the public, write for it, nor seek his material in the midst of it. A select group, representative of civilization, had at the same time protested its devotion, but how far can one write for a select group? Is not genius itself restricted, or at least influenced in its very essence by the consciousness that its gifts are to the few, its concern with the few, and its revelation apparent only to scattered80 enthusiasts81 who may be the advance guard of the future or only a little band strayed from the high road and doomed9 to extinction82 while civilization marches irresistibly83 elsewhere? All this Henry James poised84, pondered, and held in debate. No doubt the influence upon the direction of his work was profound. But for all that he went serenely85 forward; bought a house, bought a typewriter, shut himself up, surrounded himself with furniture of the right period, and was able at the critical moment by the timely, though rash, expenditure86 of a little capital to ensure that certain hideous87 new cottages did not deface his point of view. One admits to a momentary88 malice89. The seclusion90 is so deliberate; the exclusion91 so complete. All within the sanctuary92 is so prosperous and smooth. No private responsibilities harassed93 him; no public duties claimed him; his health was excellent and his income, in spite of his protests to the contrary, more than adequate to his needs. The voice that issued from the hermitage might well speak calmly, subtly, of exquisite95 emotions, and yet now and then we are warned by something exacting96 and even acid in its tone that the effects of seclusion are not altogether benign97. “Yes. Ibsen is ugly, common, hard, prosaic98, bottomlessly bourgeois99 . . .” “But, oh, yes, dear Louis, [TESS OF THE D’URBERVILLES] is vile100. The pretence101 of ‘sexuality’ is only equalled by the absence of it, and the abomination of the language by the author’s reputation for style.” The lack of “aesthetic curiosity” in Meredith and his circle was highly to be deplored102. The artist in him “was nothing to the good citizen and liberalized bourgeois.” The works of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky are “fluid puddings” and “when you ask me if I don’t feel Dostoevsky’s ‘mad jumble103, that flings things down in a heap,’ nearer truth and beauty than the picking up and composing that you instance in Stevenson, I reply with emphasis that I feel nothing of the sort.” It is true that in order to keep these points at their sharpest one has had to brush aside a mass of qualification and explanation which make each the apex104 of a formidable body of criticism. It is only for a moment that the seclusion seems cloistered105, and the feelings of an artist confounded with those of a dilettante106.
Yet as that second flits across the mind, with the chill of a shadow brushing the waves, we realize what a catastrophe for all of us it would have been if the prolonged experiment, the struggle and the solitude107 of Henry James’s life had ended in failure. Excuses could have been found both for him and for us. It is impossible, one might have said, for the artist not to compromise, or, if he persists in his allegiance, then, almost inevitably108, he must live apart, for ever alien, slowly perishing in his isolation109. The history of literature is strewn with examples of both disasters. When, therefore, almost perceptibly at a given moment, late in the story, something yields, something is overcome, something dark and dense110 glows in splendour, it is as if the beacon111 flamed bright on the hilltop; as if before our eyes the crown of long deferred112 completion and culmination113 swung slowly into place. Not columns but pages, and not pages but chapters, might be filled with comment and attempted analysis of this late and mighty114 flowering, this vindication115, this crowded gathering116 together and superb welding into shape of all the separate strands117, alien instincts, irreconcilable118 desires of the twofold nature. For, as we dimly perceive, here at last two warring forces have coalesced119; here, by a prodigious120 efflort of concentration, the field of human activity is brought into fresh focus, revealing new horizons, new landmarks121, and new lights upon it of right and wrong.
But it is for the reader at leisure to delve122 in the rich material of the later letters and build up from it the complex figure of the artist in his completeness. If we choose two passages —-one upon conduct, the other upon the gift of a leather dressing123 case — to represent Henry James in his later mood we purposely brush aside a thousand others which have innumerable good claims to be put in their place.
If there be a wisdom in not feeling — to the last throb124 — the great things that happen to us, it is a wisdom that I shall never either know or esteem125. Let your soul live — it’s the only life that isn’t on the whole a sell. . . .
That [the dressing case] is the grand fact of the situation — that is the tawny126 lion, portentous127 creature in my path. I can’t get past him, I can’t get round him, and on the other hand he stands glaring at me, refusing to give way and practically blocking all my future. I can’t live with him, you see; because I can’t live UP to him. His claims, his pretensions128, his dimensions, his assumptions and consumptions, above all the manner in which he causes every surrounding object (on my poor premises129 or within my poor range) to tell a dingy130, or deplorable tale — all this makes him the very scourge131 of my life, the very blot132 on my scutcheon. He doesn’t regild that rusty133 metal — he simply takes up an attitude of gorgeous swagger, straight in front of all the rust23 and the rubbish, which makes me look as if I had stolen SOMEBODY ELSE’S (regarnished BLASON) and were trying to palm it off as my own. . . . HE IS OUT OF THE PICTURE— out of MINE; and behold me condemned134 to live for ever with that canvas turned to the wall. Do you know what that means?
And so on and so on. There, portentous and prodigious, we hear unmistakably the voice of Henry James. There, to our thinking, we have exploded in our ears the report of his enormous, sustained, increasing, and overwhelming love of life. It issues from whatever tortuous135 channels and dark tunnels like a flood at its fullest. There is nothing too little, too large, too remote, too queer for it not to flow round, float off and make its own. Nothing in the end has chilled or repressed him; everything has fed and filled him; the saturation136 is complete. The labours of the morning might be elaborate and austere137. There remained an irrepressible fund of vitality138 which the flying hand at midnight addressed fully54 and affectionately to friend after friend, each sentence, from the whole fling of his person to the last snap of his fingers, firmly fashioned and throwing out at its swiftest well nigh incredible felicities of phrase.
The only difficulty, perhaps, was to find an envelope that would contain the bulky product, or any reason, when two sheets were blackened, for not filling a third. Truly, Lamb House was no sanctuary, but rather a “small, crammed139 and wholly unlucrative hotel,” and the hermit94 no meagre solitary140 but a tough and even stoical man of the world, English in his humour, Johnsonian in his sanity141, who lived every second with insatiable gusto and in the flux142 and fury of his impressions obeyed his own injunction to remain “as solid and fixed143 and dense as you can.” For to be as subtle as Henry James one must also be as robust144; to enjoy his power of exquisite selection one must have “lived and loved and cursed and floundered and enjoyed and suffered,” and, with the appetite of a giant, have swallowed the whole.
Yet, if he shared with magnanimity, if he enjoyed hugely, there remained something incommunicable, something reserved, as if in the last resort, it was not to us that he turned, nor from us that he received, nor into our hands that he placed his offerings. There they stand, the many books, products of “an inexhaustible sensibility,” all with the final seal upon them of artistic145 form, which, as it imposes its stamp, sets apart the object thus consecrated146 and makes it no longer part of ourselves. In this impersonality147 the maker148 himself desired to share —“to take it,” as he said, “wholly, exclusively with the pen (the style, the genius) and absolutely not at all with the person,” to be “the mask without the face,” the alien in our midst, the worker who when his work is done turns even from that and reserves his confidence for the solitary hour, like that at midnight when, alone on the threshold of creation, Henry James speaks aloud to himself “and the prospect clears and flushes, and my poor blest old genius pats me so admirably and lovingly on the back that I turn, I screw round, and bend my lips to passionately149, in my gratitude150, kiss its hands.” So that is why, perhaps, as life swings and clangs, booms and reverberates151, we have the sense of an altar of service, of sacrifice, to which, as we pass out, we bend the knee.
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1
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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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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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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unfamiliarity
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ordains
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的第三人称单数 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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proboscis
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| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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50
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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51
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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54
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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56
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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57
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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58
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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60
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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61
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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62
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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63
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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64
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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65
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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66
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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67
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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68
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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69
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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70
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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71
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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72
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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73
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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74
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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76
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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77
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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78
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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79
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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80
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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81
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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82
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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83
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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84
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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85
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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86
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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87
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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88
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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89
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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90
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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91
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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92
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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93
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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94
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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95
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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96
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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97
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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98
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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99
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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100
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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101
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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102
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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104
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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105
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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107
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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108
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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109
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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110
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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111
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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112
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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113
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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114
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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115
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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116
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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117
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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119
coalesced
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| v.联合，合并( coalesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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121
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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122
delve
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| v.深入探究，钻研 | |
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123
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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124
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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125
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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126
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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127
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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128
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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129
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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130
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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131
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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132
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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133
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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134
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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135
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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136
saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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137
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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138
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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139
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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140
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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141
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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142
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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143
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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144
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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145
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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146
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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147
impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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148
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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149
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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150
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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151
reverberates
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的第三人称单数 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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