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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
In the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue jerked slowly forward. The room was already very full and deafeningly noisy. From the grille at the counter the steam of stew1 came pouring forth2, with a sour metallic3 smell which did not quite overcome the fumes4 of Victory Gin. On the far side of the room there was a small bar, a mere5 hole in the wall, where gin could be bought at ten cents the large nip.
‘Just the man I was looking for,’ said a voice at Winston’s back.
He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research Department. Perhaps ‘friend’ was not exactly the right word. You did not have friends nowadays, you had comrades: but there were some comrades whose society was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist6, a specialist in Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous team of experts now engaged in compiling the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny creature, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuberant8 eyes, at once mournful and derisive9, which seemed to search your face closely while he was speaking to you.
‘I wanted to ask you whether you’d got any razor blades,’ he said.
‘Not one!’ said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. ‘I’ve tried all over the place. They don’t exist any longer.’
Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused ones which he was hoarding10 up. There had been a famine of them for months past. At any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was darning wool, sometimes it was shoelaces; at present it was razor blades. You could only get hold of them, if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively12 on the ‘free’ market.
‘I’ve been using the same blade for six weeks,’ he added untruthfully.
The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy14 metal tray from a pile at the end of the counter.
‘Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?’ said Syme.
‘A very inadequate16 substitute,’ said Syme.
His mocking eyes roved over Winston’s face. ‘I know you,’ the eyes seemed to say, ‘I see through you. I know very well why you didn’t go to see those prisoners hanged.’ In an intellectual way, Syme was venomously orthodox. He would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of helicopter raids on enemy villages, and trials and confessions17 of thought-criminals, the executions in the cellars of the Ministry18 of Love. Talking to him was largely a matter of getting him away from such subjects and entangling19 him, if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on which he was authoritative20 and interesting. Winston turned his head a little aside to avoid the scrutiny21 of the large dark eyes.
‘It was a good hanging,’ said Syme reminiscently. ‘I think it spoils it when they tie their feet together. I like to see them kicking. And above all, at the end, the tongue sticking right out, and blue — a quite bright blue. That’s the detail that appeals to me.’
‘Nex’, please!’ yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle.
Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to each was dumped swiftly the regulation lunch — a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew, a hunk of bread, a cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and one saccharine22 tablet.
‘There’s a table over there, under that telescreen,’ said Syme. ‘Let’s pick up a gin on the way.’
The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded their way across the crowded room and unpacked23 their trays on to the metal-topped table, on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a filthy24 liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit25. Winston took up his mug of gin, paused for an instant to collect his nerve, and gulped26 the oily-tasting stuff down. When he had winked27 the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discovered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of the stew, which, in among its general sloppiness28, had cubes of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation of meat. Neither of them spoke30 again till they had emptied their pannikins. From the table at Winston’s left, a little behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking32 of a duck, which pierced the general uproar33 of the room.
‘How is the Dictionary getting on?’ said Winston, raising his voice to overcome the noise.
‘Slowly,’ said Syme. ‘I’m on the adjectives. It’s fascinating.’
He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He pushed his pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese in the other, and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without shouting.
‘The Eleventh Edition is the definitive34 edition,’ he said. ‘We’re getting the language into its final shape — the shape it’s going to have when nobody speaks anything else. When we’ve finished with it, people like you will have to learn it all over again. You think, I dare say, that our chief job is inventing new words. But not a bit of it! We’re destroying words — scores of them, hundreds of them, every day. We’re cutting the language down to the bone. The Eleventh Edition won’t contain a single word that will become obsolete35 before the year 2050.’
He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, then continued speaking, with a sort of pedant’s passion. His thin dark face had become animated36, his eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost dreamy.
‘It’s a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn’t only the synonyms37; there are also the antonyms38. After all, what justification39 is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite in itself. Take “good”, for instance. If you have a word like “good”, what need is there for a word like “bad”? “Ungood” will do just as well — better, because it’s an exact opposite, which the other is not. Or again, if you want a stronger version of “good”, what sense is there in having a whole string of vague useless words like “excellent” and “splendid” and all the rest of them? “Plusgood” covers the meaning, or “doubleplusgood” if you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but in the final version of Newspeak there’ll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words — in reality, only one word. Don’t you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.‘s idea originally, of course,’ he added as an afterthought.
A sort of vapid40 eagerness flitted across Winston’s face at the mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm.
‘You haven’t a real appreciation41 of Newspeak, Winston,’ he said almost sadly. ‘Even when you write it you’re still thinking in Oldspeak. I’ve read some of those pieces that you write in “The Times” occasionally. They’re good enough, but they’re translations. In your heart you’d prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don’t grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?’
Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured bread, chewed it briefly42, and went on:
‘Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally43 impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly44 defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we’re not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there’s no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It’s merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won’t be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,’ he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation as we are having now?’
‘Except ——’ began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to say ‘Except the proles,’ but he checked himself, not feeling fully13 certain that this remark was not in some way unorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say.
‘The proles are not human beings,’ he said carelessly. ‘By 2050 — earlier, probably — all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron — they’ll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed into something different, but actually changed into something contradictory45 of what they used to be. Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will change. How could you have a slogan like “freedom is slavery” when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking — not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.’
One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction, Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too plainly. The Party does not like such people. One day he will disappear. It is written in his face.
Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man with the strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who was perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back to Winston, was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with everything that he said. From time to time Winston caught some such remark as ‘I think you’re so right, I do so agree with you’, uttered in a youthful and rather silly feminine voice. But the other voice never stopped for an instant, even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase —‘complete and final elimination46 of Goldsteinism’— jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack31-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities47 of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front — it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw48 moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy49. It was not the man’s brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck.
Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle50 of stew. The voice from the other table quacked51 rapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din11.
‘There is a word in Newspeak,’ said Syme, ‘I don’t know whether you know it: DUCKSPEAK, to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting words that have two contradictory meanings. Applied52 to an opponent, it is abuse, applied to someone you agree with, it is praise.’
Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again. He thought it with a kind of sadness, although well knowing that Syme despised him and slightly disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as a thought-criminal if he saw any reason for doing so. There was something subtly wrong with Syme. There was something that he lacked: discretion53, aloofness54, a sort of saving stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He believed in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated55 Big Brother, he rejoiced over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with sincerity56 but with a sort of restless zeal57, an up-to-dateness of information, which the ordinary Party member did not approach. Yet a faint air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things that would have been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he frequented the Chestnut58 Tree Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law, not even an unwritten law, against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Cafe, yet the place was somehow ill-omened. The old, discredited59 leaders of the Party had been used to gather there before they were finally purged60. Goldstein himself, it was said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. Syme’s fate was not difficult to foresee. And yet it was a fact that if Syme grasped, even for three seconds, the nature of his, Winston’s, secret opinions, he would betray him instantly to the Thought Police. So would anybody else, for that matter: but Syme more than most. Zeal was not enough. Orthodoxy was unconsciousness.
Syme looked up. ‘Here comes Parsons,’ he said.
Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, ‘that bloody61 fool’. Parsons, Winston’s fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions62, was in fact threading his way across the room — a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a froglike face. At thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at neck and waistline, but his movements were brisk and boyish. His whole appearance was that of a little boy grown large, so much so that although he was wearing the regulation overalls63, it was almost impossible not to think of him as being dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red neckerchief of the Spies. In visualizing64 him one saw always a picture of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy forearms. Parsons did, indeed, invariably revert65 to shorts when a community hike or any other physical activity gave him an excuse for doing so. He greeted them both with a cheery ‘Hullo, hullo!’ and sat down at the table, giving off an intense smell of sweat. Beads66 of moisture stood out all over his pink face. His powers of sweating were extraordinary. At the Community Centre you could always tell when he had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat handle. Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was a long column of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his fingers.
‘Look at him working away in the lunch hour,’ said Parsons, nudging Winston. ‘Keenness, eh? What’s that you’ve got there, old boy? Something a bit too brainy for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I’ll tell you why I’m chasing you. It’s that sub you forgot to give me.’
‘Which sub is that?’ said Winston, automatically feeling for money. About a quarter of one’s salary had to be earmarked for voluntary subscriptions67, which were so numerous that it was difficult to keep track of them.
‘For Hate Week. You know — the house-by-house fund. I’m treasurer68 for our block. We’re making an all-out effort — going to put on a tremendous show. I tell you, it won’t be my fault if old Victory Mansions doesn’t have the biggest outfit69 of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me.’
Winston found and handed over two creased70 and filthy notes, which Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the illiterate71.
‘By the way, old boy,’ he said. ‘I hear that little beggar of mine let fly at you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him a good dressing-down for it. In fact I told him I’d take the catapult away if he does it again.’
‘I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,’ said Winston.
‘Ah, well — what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, doesn’t it? Mischievous72 little beggars they are, both of them, but talk about keenness! All they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. D’you know what that little girl of mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike out Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her, slipped off from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon following a strange man. They kept on his tail for two hours, right through the woods, and then, when they got into Amersham, handed him over to the patrols.’
‘What did they do that for?’ said Winston, somewhat taken aback. Parsons went on triumphantly73:
‘My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent — might have been dropped by parachute, for instance. But here’s the point, old boy. What do you think put her on to him in the first place? She spotted74 he was wearing a funny kind of shoes — said she’d never seen anyone wearing shoes like that before. So the chances were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?’
‘What happened to the man?’ said Winston.
‘Ah, that I couldn’t say, of course. But I wouldn’t be altogether surprised if ——’ Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and clicked his tongue for the explosion.
‘Good,’ said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip of paper.
‘Of course we can’t afford to take chances,’ agreed Winston dutifully.
‘What I mean to say, there is a war on,’ said Parsons.
As though in confirmation75 of this, a trumpet76 call floated from the telescreen just above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of a military victory this time, but merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty.
‘Comrades!’ cried an eager youthful voice. ‘Attention, comrades! We have glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns now completed of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that the standard of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous demonstrations77 when workers marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the streets with banners voicing their gratitude78 to Big Brother for the new, happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed79 upon us. Here are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs80 ——’
The phrase ‘our new, happy life’ recurred81 several times. It had been a favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping82 solemnity, a sort of edified83 boredom84. He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged85 out a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred86 tobacco. With the tobacco ration29 at 100 grammes a week it was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top. Winston was smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully horizontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ration was to be REDUCED to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately87, with a furious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too — in some more complex way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, ALONE in the possession of a memory?
The fabulous88 statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen. As compared with last year there was more food, more clothes, more houses, more furniture, more cooking-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, more books, more babies — more of everything except disease, crime, and insanity89. Year by year and minute by minute, everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards90. As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon and was dabbling91 in the pale-coloured gravy92 that dribbled93 across the table, drawing a long streak94 of it out into a pattern. He meditated95 resentfully on the physical texture96 of life. Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innumerable bodies; battered97 metal tables and chairs, placed so close together that you sat with elbows touching98; bent99 spoons, dented100 trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he had no memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could accurately101 remember, there had never been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes insufficient102 — nothing cheap and plentiful103 except synthetic104 gin. And though, of course, it grew worse as one’s body aged7, was it not a sign that this was NOT the natural order of things, if one’s heart sickened at the discomfort105 and dirt and scarcity106, the interminable winters, the stickiness of one’s socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different?
He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would still have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue overalls. On the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously107 beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting108 suspicious glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the physical type set up by the Party as an ideal — tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed maidens109, blond-haired, vital, sunburnt, carefree — existed and even predominated. Actually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious how that beetle-like type proliferated110 in the Ministries111: little dumpy men, growing stout112 very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling113 movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to flourish best under the dominion114 of the Party.
The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet call and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the bombardment of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth.
‘The Ministry of Plenty’s certainly done a good job this year,’ he said with a knowing shake of his head. ‘By the way, Smith old boy, I suppose you haven’t got any razor blades you can let me have?’
‘Not one,’ said Winston. ‘I’ve been using the same blade for six weeks myself.’
‘Ah, well — just thought I’d ask you, old boy.’
‘Sorry,’ said Winston.
The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during the Ministry’s announcement, had started up again, as loud as ever. For some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy115 hair and the dust in the creases116 of her face. Within two years those children would be denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O’Brien would be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men who scuttle117 so nimbly through the labyrinthine118 corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized. And the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department — she would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he knew instinctively119 who would survive and who would perish: though just what it was that made for survival, it was not easy to say.
At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk. The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him. It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but with curious intensity120. The instant she caught his eye she looked away again.
The sweat started out on Winston’s backbone121. A horrible pang122 of terror went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging123 uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at any rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough.
His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a member of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely124 the amateur spy who was the greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been looking at him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was possible that his features had not been perfectly125 under control. It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to yourself — anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, to wear an improper126 expression on your face (to look incredulous when a victory was announced, for example) was itself a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in Newspeak: FACECRIME, it was called.
The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she was not really following him about, perhaps it was coincidence that she had sat so close to him two days running. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid it carefully on the edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work, if he could keep the tobacco in it. Quite likely the person at the next table was a spy of the Thought Police, and quite likely he would be in the cellars of the Ministry of Love within three days, but a cigarette end must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again.
‘Did I ever tell you, old boy,’ he said, chuckling127 round the stem of his pipe, ‘about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the old market-woman’s skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of B.B.? Sneaked128 up behind her and set fire to it with a box of matches. Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But keen as mustard! That’s a first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays — better than in my day, even. What d’you think’s the latest thing they’ve served them out with? Ear trumpets129 for listening through keyholes! My little girl brought one home the other night — tried it out on our sitting-room130 door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her ear to the hole. Of course it’s only a toy, mind you. Still, gives ’em the right idea, eh?’
At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the signal to return to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in the struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston’s cigarette.
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收听单词发音
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1
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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philologist
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| n.语言学者，文献学者 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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15
flicks
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的第三人称单数 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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17
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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18
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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19
entangling
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| v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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20
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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21
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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22
saccharine
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| adj.奉承的，讨好的 | |
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23
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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24
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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25
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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26
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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27
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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28
sloppiness
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| n.草率，粗心 | |
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29
ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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30
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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31
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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32
quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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33
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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34
definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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35
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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36
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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37
synonyms
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| 同义词( synonym的名词复数 ) | |
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38
antonyms
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| 反义词( antonym的名词复数 ) | |
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39
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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40
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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41
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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42
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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43
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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44
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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45
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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46
elimination
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| n.排除，消除，消灭 | |
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47
atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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48
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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49
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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50
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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51
quacked
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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53
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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54
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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55
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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57
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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58
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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59
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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60
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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61
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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62
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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63
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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64
visualizing
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| 肉眼观察 | |
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65
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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66
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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67
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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68
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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69
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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70
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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71
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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72
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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73
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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74
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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75
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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76
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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77
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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78
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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79
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
foodstuffs
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| 食物，食品( foodstuff的名词复数 ) | |
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81
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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82
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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83
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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85
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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87
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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88
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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89
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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90
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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91
dabbling
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| v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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92
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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93
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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94
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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95
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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96
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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97
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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98
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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99
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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100
dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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101
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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102
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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103
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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104
synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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105
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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106
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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107
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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108
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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109
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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110
proliferated
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| 激增( proliferate的过去式和过去分词 )； （迅速）繁殖； 增生； 扩散 | |
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111
ministries
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| （政府的）部( ministry的名词复数 )； 神职； 牧师职位； 神职任期 | |
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112
stout
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| adj.强壮的，粗大的，结实的，勇猛的，矮胖的 | |
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113
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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114
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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115
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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116
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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117
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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118
labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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119
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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120
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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121
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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122
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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123
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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124
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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125
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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126
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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127
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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128
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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129
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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130
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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