There are many reasons which should prevent one from criticizing the work of contemporaries. Besides the obvious uneasiness — the fear of hurting feelings — there is too the difficulty of being just. Coming out one by one, their books seem like parts of a design which is slowly uncovered. Our appreciation1 may be intense, but our curiosity is even greater. Does the new fragment add anything to what went before? Does it carry out our theory of the author’s talent, or must we alter our forecast? Such questions ruffle2 what should be the smooth surface of our criticism and make it full of argument and interrogation. With a novelist like Mr. Forster this is specially3 true, for he is in any case an author about whom there is considerable disagreement. There is something baffling and evasive in the very nature of his gifts. So, remembering that we are at best only building up a theory which may be knocked down in a year or two by Mr. Forster himself, let us take Mr. Forster’s novels in the order in which they were written, and tentatively and cautiously try to make them yield us an answer.
The order in which they were written is indeed of some importance, for at the outset we see that Mr. Forster is extremely susceptible4 to the influence of time. He sees his people much at the mercy of those conditions which change with the years. He is acutely conscious of the bicycle and of the motor car; of the public school and of the university; of the suburb and of the city. The social historian will find his books full of illuminating5 information. In 1905 Lilia learned to bicycle, coasted down the High Street on Sunday evening, and fell off at the turn by the church. For this she was given a talking to by her brother-in-law which she remembered to her dying day. It is on Tuesday that the housemaid cleans out the drawing-room at Sawston. Old maids blow into their gloves when they take them off. Mr. Forster is a novelist, that is to say, who sees his people in close contact with their surroundings. And therefore the colour and constitution of the year 1905 affect him far more than any year in the calendar could affect the romantic Meredith or the poetic6 Hardy7. But we discover as we turn the page that observation is not an end in itself; it is rather the goad8, the gadfly driving Mr. Forster to provide a refuge from this misery9, an escape from this meanness. Hence we arrive at that balance of forces which plays so large a part in the structure of Mr. Forster’s novels. Sawston implies Italy; timidity, wildness; convention, freedom; unreality, reality. These are the villains10 and heroes of much of his writing. In WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD the disease, convention, and the remedy, nature, are provided if anything with too eager a simplicity12, too simple an assurance, but with what a freshness, what a charm! Indeed it would not be excessive if we discovered in this slight first novel evidence of powers which only needed, one might hazard, a more generous diet to ripen13 into wealth and beauty. Twenty-two years might well have taken the sting from the satire14 and shifted the proportions of the whole. But, if that is to some extent true, the years have had no power to obliterate15 the fact that, though Mr. Forster may be sensitive to the bicycle and the duster, he is also the most persistent16 devotee of the soul. Beneath bicycles and dusters, Sawston and Italy, Philip, Harriet, and Miss Abbott, there always lies for him — it is this which makes him so tolerant a satirist17 — a burning core. It is the soul; it is reality; it is truth; it is poetry; it is love; it decks itself in many shapes, dresses itself in many disguises. But get at it he must; keep from it he cannot. Over brakes and byres, over drawing-room carpets and mahogany sideboards, he flies in pursuit. Naturally the spectacle is sometimes comic, often fatiguing18; but there are moments — and his first novel provides several instances — when he lays his hands on the prize.
Yet, if we ask ourselves upon which occasions this happens and how, it will seem that those passages which are least didactic, least conscious of the pursuit of beauty, succeed best in achieving it. When he allows himself a holiday — some phrase like that comes to our lips; when he forgets the vision and frolics and sports with the fact; when, having planted the apostles of culture in their hotel, he creates airily, joyfully19, spontaneously, Gino the dentist’s son sitting in the cafe with his friends, or describes — it is a masterpiece of comedy — the performance of LUCIA DI LAMMERMOOR, it is then that we feel that his aim is achieved. Judging, therefore, on the evidence of this first book, with its fantasy, its penetration20, its remarkable21 sense of design, we should have said that once Mr. Forster had acquired freedom, had passed beyond the boundaries of Sawston, he would stand firmly on his feet among the descendants of Jane Austen and Peacock. But the second novel, THE LONGEST JOURNEY, leaves us baffled and puzzled. The opposition22 is still the same: truth and untruth; Cambridge and Sawston; sincerity23 and sophistication. But everything is accentuated24. He builds his Sawston of thicker bricks and destroys it with stronger blasts. The contrast between poetry and realism is much more precipitous. And now we see much more clearly to what a task his gifts commit him. We see that what might have been a passing mood is in truth a conviction. He believes that a novel must take sides in the human conflict. He sees beauty — none more keenly; but beauty imprisoned26 in a fortress27 of brick and mortar28 whence he must extricate29 her. Hence he is always constrained30 to build the cage — society in all its intricacy and triviality — before he can free the prisoner. The omnibus, the villa11, the suburban31 residence, are an essential part of his design. They are required to imprison25 and impede32 the flying flame which is so remorselessly caged behind them. At the same time, as we read THE LONGEST JOURNEY we are aware of a mocking spirit of fantasy which flouts33 his seriousness. No one seizes more deftly34 the shades and shadows of the social comedy; no one more amusingly hits off the comedy of luncheon35 and tea party and a game of tennis at the rectory. His old maids, his clergy36, are the most lifelike we have had since Jane Austen laid down the pen. But he has into the bargain what Jane Austen had not — the impulses of a poet. The neat surface is always being thrown into disarray37 by an outburst of lyric38 poetry. Again and again in THE LONGEST JOURNEY we are delighted by some exquisite39 description of the country; or some lovely sight — like that when Rickie and Stephen send the paper boats burning through the arch — is made visible to us forever. Here, then, is a difficult family of gifts to persuade to live in harmony together: satire and sympathy; fantasy and fact; poetry and a prim40 moral sense. No wonder that we are often aware of contrary currents that run counter to each other and prevent the book from bearing down upon us and overwhelming us with the authority of a masterpiece. Yet if there is one gift more essential to a novelist than another it is the power of combination — the single vision. The success of the masterpieces seems to lie not so much in their freedom from faults — indeed we tolerate the grossest errors in them all — but in the immense persuasiveness41 of a mind which has completely mastered its perspective.
II
We look then, as time goes on, for signs that Mr. Forster is committing himself; that he is allying himself to one of the two great camps to which most novelists belong. Speaking roughly, we may divide them into the preachers and the teachers, headed by Tolstoy and Dickens, on the one hand, and the pure artists, headed by Jane Austen and Turgenev, on the other. Mr. Forster, it seems, has a strong impulse to belong to both camps at once. He has many of the instincts and aptitudes42 of the pure artist (to adopt the old classification)— an exquisite prose style, an acute sense of comedy, a power of creating characters in a few strokes which live in an atmosphere of their own; but he is at the same time highly conscious of a message. Behind the rainbow of wit and sensibility there is a vision which he is determined43 that we shall see. But his vision is of a peculiar44 kind and his message of an elusive45 nature. He has not great interest in institutions. He has none of that wide social curiosity which marks the work of Mr. Wells. The divorce law and the poor law come in for little of his attention. His concern is with the private life; his message is addressed to the soul. “It is the private life that holds out the mirror to infinity46; personal intercourse47, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision.” Our business is not to build in brick and mortar, but to draw together the seen and the unseen. We must learn to build the “rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks48, half beasts.” This belief that it is the private life that matters, that it is the soul that is eternal, runs through all his writing. It is the conflict between Sawston and Italy in WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD; between Rickie and Agnes in THE LONGEST JOURNEY; between Lucy and Cecil in A ROOM WITH A VIEW. It deepens, it becomes more insistent49 as time passes. It forces him on from the lighter50 and more whimsical short novels past that curious interlude, THE CELESTIAL51 OMNIBUS, to the two large books, HOWARDS END and A PASSAGE TO INDIA, which mark his prime.
But before we consider those two books let us look for a moment at the nature of the problem he sets himself. It is the soul that matters; and the soul, as we have seen, is caged in a solid villa of red brick somewhere in the suburbs of London. It seems, then, that if his books are to succeed in their mission his reality must at certain points become irradiated; his brick must be lit up; we must see the whole building saturated52 with light. We have at once to believe in the complete reality of the suburb and in the complete reality of the soul. In this combination of realism and mysticism his closest affinity53 is, perhaps, with Ibsen. Ibsen has the same realistic power. A room is to him a room, a writing table a writing table, and a waste-paper basket a waste-paper basket. At the same time, the paraphernalia54 of reality have at certain moments to become the veil through which we see infinity. When Ibsen achieves this, as he certainly does, it is not by performing some miraculous55 conjuring56 trick at the critical moment. He achieves it by putting us into the right mood from the very start and by giving us the right materials for his purpose. He gives us the effect of ordinary life, as Mr. Forster does, but he gives it us by choosing a very few facts and those of a highly relevant kind. Thus when the moment of illumination comes we accept it implicitly57. We are neither roused nor puzzled; we do not have to ask ourselves, What does this mean? We feel simply that the thing we are looking at is lit up, and its depths revealed. It has not ceased to be itself by becoming something else.
Something of the same problem lies before Mr. Forster — how to connect the actual thing with the meaning of the thing and to carry the reader’s mind across the chasm58 which divides the two without spilling a single drop of its belief. At certain moments on the Arno, in Hertfordshire, in Surrey, beauty leaps from the scabbard, the fire of truth flames through the crusted earth; we must see the red brick villa in the suburbs of London lit up. But it is in these great scenes which are the justification59 of the huge elaboration of the realistic novel that we are most aware of failure. For it is here that Mr. Forster makes the change from realism to symbolism; here that the object which has been so uncompromisingly solid becomes, or should become, luminously60 transparent61. He fails, one is tempted62 to think, chiefly because that admirable gift of his for observation has served him too well. He has recorded too much and too literally63. He has given us an almost photographic picture on one side of the page; on the other he asks us to see the same view transformed and radiant with eternal fires. The bookcase which falls upon Leonard Bast in HOWARDS END should perhaps come down upon him with all the dead weight of smoke-dried culture; the Marabar caves should appear to us not real caves but, it may be, the soul of India. Miss Quested should be transformed from an English girl on a picnic to arrogant64 Europe straying into the heart of the East and getting lost there. We qualify these statements, for indeed we are not quite sure whether we have guessed aright. Instead of getting that sense of instant certainty which we get in THE WILD DUCK or in THE MASTER BUILDER, we are puzzled, worried. What does this mean? we ask ourselves. What ought we to understand by this? And the hesitation65 is fatal. For we doubt both things — the real and the symbolical66: Mrs. Moore, the nice old lady, and Mrs. Moore, the sibyl. The conjunction of these two different realities seems to cast doubt upon them both. Hence it is that there is so often an ambiguity67 at the heart of Mr. Forster’s novels. We feel that something has failed us at the critical moment; and instead of seeing, as we do in THE MASTER BUILDER, one single whole we see two separate parts.
The stories collected under the title of THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS represent, it may be, an attempt on Mr. Forster’s part to simplify the problem which so often troubles him of connecting the prose and poetry of life. Here he admits definitely if discreetly68 the possibility of magic. Omnibuses drive to Heaven; Pan is heard in the brushwood; girls turn into trees. The stories are extremely charming. They release the fantasticality which is laid under such heavy burdens in the novels. But the vein69 of fantasy is not deep enough or strong enough to fight single-handed against those other impulses which are part of his endowment. We feel that he is an uneasy truant70 in fairyland. Behind the hedge he always hears the motor horn and the shuffling71 feet of tired wayfarers72, and soon he must return. One slim volume indeed contains all that he has allowed himself of pure fantasy. We pass from the freakish land where boys leap into the arms of Pan and girls become trees to the two Miss Schlegels, who have an income of six hundred pounds apiece and live in Wickham Place.
III
Much though we may regret the change, we cannot doubt that it was right. For none of the books before HOWARDS END and A PASSAGE TO INDIA altogether drew upon the full range of Mr. Forster’s powers. With his queer and in some ways contradictory73 assortment74 of gifts, he needed, it seemed, some subject which would stimulate75 his highly sensitive and active intelligence, but would not demand the extremes of romance or passion; a subject which gave him material for criticism, and invited investigation76; a subject which asked to be built up of an enormous number of slight yet precise observations, capable of being tested by an extremely honest yet sympathetic mind; yet, with all this, a subject which when finally constructed would show up against the torrents77 of the sunset and the eternities of night with a symbolical significance. In HOWARDS END the lower middle, the middle, the upper middle classes of English society are so built up into a complete fabric78. It is an attempt on a larger scale than hitherto, and, if it fails, the size of the attempt is largely responsible. Indeed, as we think back over the many pages of this elaborate and highly skilful79 book, with its immense technical accomplishment80, and also its penetration, its wisdom and its beauty, we may wonder in what mood of the moment we can have been prompted to call it a failure. By all the rules, still more by the keen interest with which we have read it from start to finish, we should have said success. The reason is suggested perhaps by the manner of one’s praise. Elaboration, skill, wisdom, penetration, beauty — they are all there, but they lack fusion81; they lack cohesion82; the book as a whole lacks force. Schlegels, Wilcoxes, and Basts, with all that they stand for of class and environment, emerge with extraordinary verisimilitude, but the whole effect is less satisfying than that of the much slighter but beautifully harmonious83 WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. Again we have the sense that there is some perversity84 in Mr. Forster’s endowment so that his gifts in their variety and number tend to trip each other up. If he were less scrupulous85, less just, less sensitively aware of the different aspects of every case, he could, we feel, come down with greater force on one precise point. As it is, the strength of his blow is dissipated. He is like a light sleeper86 who is always being woken by something in the room. The poet is twitched87 away by the satirist; the comedian88 is tapped on the shoulder by the moralist; he never loses himself or forgets himself for long in sheer delight in the beauty or the interest of things as they are. For this reason the lyrical passages in his books, often of great beauty in themselves, fail of their due effect in the context. Instead of flowering naturally — as in Proust, for instance — from an overflow89 of interest and beauty in the object itself, we feel that they have been called into existence by some irritation90, are the effort of a mind outraged91 by ugliness to supplement it with a beauty which, because it originates in protest, has something a little febrile about it.
Yet in HOWARDS END there are, one feels, in solution all the qualities that are needed to make a masterpiece. The characters are extremely real to us. The ordering of the story is masterly. That indefinable but highly important thing, the atmosphere of the book, is alight with intelligence; not a speck92 of humbug93, not an atom of falsity is allowed to settle. And again, but on a larger battlefield, the struggle goes forward which takes place in all Mr. Forster’s novels — the struggle between the things that matter and the things that do not matter, between reality and sham94, between the truth and the lie. Again the comedy is exquisite and the observation faultless. But again, just as we are yielding ourselves to the pleasures of the imagination, a little jerk rouses us. We are tapped on the shoulder. We are to notice this, to take heed95 of that. Margaret or Helen, we are made to understand, is not speaking simply as herself; her words have another and a larger intention. So, exerting ourselves to find out the meaning, we step from the enchanted96 world of imagination, where our faculties97 work freely, to the twilight98 world of theory, where only our intellect functions dutifully. Such moments of disillusionment have the habit of coming when Mr. Forster is most in earnest, at the crisis of the book, where the sword falls or the bookcase drops. They bring, as we have noted99 already, a curious insubstantiality into the “great scenes” and the important figures. But they absent themselves entirely100 from the comedy. They make us wish, foolishly enough, to dispose Mr. Forster’s gifts differently and to restrict him to write comedy only. For directly he ceases to feel responsible for his characters’ behaviour, and forgets that he should solve the problem of the universe, he is the most diverting of novelists. The admirable Tibby and the exquisite Mrs. Munt in HOWARDS END, though thrown in largely to amuse us, bring a breath of fresh air in with them. They inspire us with the intoxicating101 belief that they are free to wander as far from their creator as they choose. Margaret, Helen, Leonard Bast, are closely tethered and vigilantly102 overlooked lest they may take matters into their own hands and upset the theory. But Tibby and Mrs. Munt go where they like, say what they like, do what they like. The lesser103 characters and the unimportant scenes in Mr. Forster’s novels thus often remain more vivid than those with which, apparently104, most pain has been taken. But it would be unjust to part from this big, serious, and highly interesting book without recognizing that it is an important if unsatisfactory piece of work which may well be the prelude105 to something as large but less anxious.
IV
Many years passed before A PASSAGE TO INDIA appeared. Those who hoped that in the interval106 Mr. Forster might have developed his technique so that it yielded rather more easily to the impress of his whimsical mind and gave freer outlet107 to the poetry and fantasy which play about in him were disappointed. The attitude is precisely108 the same four-square attitude which walks up to life as if it were a house with a front door, puts its hat on the table in the hall and proceeds to visit all the rooms in an orderly manner. The house is still the house of the British middle classes. But there is a change from HOWARDS END. Hitherto Mr. Forster has been apt to pervade109 his books like a careful hostess who is anxious to introduce, to explain, to warn her guests of a step here, of a draught110 there. But here, perhaps in some disillusionment both with his guests and with his house, he seems to have relaxed these cares. We are allowed to ramble111 over this extraordinary continent almost alone. We notice things, about the country especially, spontaneously, accidentally almost, as if we were actually there; and now it was the sparrows flying about the pictures that caught our eyes, now the elephant with the painted forehead, now the enormous but badly designed ranges of hills. The people too, particularly the Indians, have something of the same casual, inevitable112 quality. They are not perhaps quite so important as the land, but they are alive; they are sensitive. No longer do we feel, as we used to feel in England, that they will be allowed to go only so far and no further lest they may upset some theory of the author’s. Aziz is a free agent. He is the most imaginative character that Mr. Forster has yet created, and recalls Gino the dentist in his first book, WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. We may guess indeed that it has helped Mr. Forster to have put the ocean between him and Sawston. It is a relief, for a time, to be beyond the influence of Cambridge. Though it is still a necessity for him to build a model world which he can submit to delicate and precise criticism, the model is on a larger scale. The English society, with all its pettiness and its vulgarity and its streak113 of heroism114, is set against a bigger and a more sinister115 background. And though it is still true that there are ambiguities116 in important places, moments of imperfect symbolism, a greater accumulation of facts than the imagination is able to deal with, it seems as if the double vision which troubled us in the earlier books was in process of becoming single. The saturation117 is much more thorough. Mr. Forster has almost achieved the great feat118 of animating119 this dense120, compact body of observation with a spiritual light. The book shows signs of fatigue121 and disillusionment; but it has chapters of clear and triumphant122 beauty, and above all it makes us wonder, What will he write next?
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1
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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2
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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5
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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6
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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7
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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10
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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13
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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14
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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16
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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flouts
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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41
persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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42
aptitudes
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| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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43
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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45
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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46
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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47
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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48
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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49
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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50
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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51
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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52
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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53
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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54
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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55
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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56
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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57
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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58
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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59
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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60
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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62
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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67
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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68
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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69
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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71
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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78
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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83
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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93
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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99
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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100
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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101
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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102
vigilantly
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| adv.警觉地，警惕地 | |
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103
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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104
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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105
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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106
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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107
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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108
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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109
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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111
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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112
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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113
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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114
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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115
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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116
ambiguities
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| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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117
saturation
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| n.饱和(状态)；浸透 | |
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118
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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119
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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120
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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121
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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122
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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