GR translation: deepen

[Mike Jing]

The word "deepen" appeared in GR 15 times (No.7 below includes two instances).

No.1,3,5,7,8,10,12,13,and 14 seem to have the same meaning, which
describes color getting darker, probably due to the loss of light.

No.6,9,and 11 have nothing to do with light or colors.

No.2 and 4 puzzle me a bit, because things are deepening under the
light. What exactly does that mean?


(1)   P22.5-8   The lieutenants stare at each other through the beery
shadows, with the day deepening outside the high cold windows of the
Snipe and Shaft, and Tantivy about to laugh or snort oh God across the
wood Atlantic of their table.

(2)   P29.39-P30.5   6:43:16 BDST—in the sky right now here is the
same unfolding, just about to break through, his face deepening with
its light, everything about to rush away and he to lose himself, just
as his countryside has ever proclaimed . . . slender church steeples
poised up and down all these autumn hillsides, white rockets about to
fire, only seconds of countdown away, rose windows taking in Sunday
light, elevating and washing the faces above the pulpits defining
grace, swearing this is how it does happen—yes the great bright hand
reaching out of the cloud. . . .

(3)   P121.33-36   Hunting across the zero between waking and sleep,
his halfway limp cock still inside her, their strengthless legs bent
the same angle . . . The bedroom deepens into water and coolness.
Somewhere the sun is going down. Just enough light to see the darker
freckles on her back.

(4)   P127.21-25   Try to hold it down old man, panic if you must but
later, not here. . .. Faint washroom light bulbs deepen the thousands
of old clustered water and soap spots on the mirrors to an
interfeathering of clouds, of skin and smoke as he swings his head
past, lemon and beige, oilsmoke black and twilight brown in here, very
loosely crumbled, that’s the texture. . . .

(5)   P148.7-14   Had he felt her, even then, beginning to recede . .
. called up the control from across the Wall as a way of holding on?
She was deepening from his waking, his social eye like light at the
edge of the evening when, for perhaps a perilous ten minutes, nothing
helps: put on your glasses and light lamps, sit by the west window and
still it keeps going away, you keep losing the light and perhaps it is
forever this time . . . a good time of day for learning surrender,
learning to diminish like the light, or like certain music.

(6)   P158.26-36   Yet her lines will not deepen fast enough, her
mouth not learn hardening past a face she keeps surprising herself
with, a daydreaming child’s face, betraying her to anyone who’ll look,
exactly the sort of fat-softened, unfocused weakness that causes men
to read her as Dependent Little Girl—even in Peter Sachsa she’s seen
the look—and the dream is the same one she went to find while Franz
groaned inside his own dark pain-wishes, a dream of gentleness, light,
her criminal heart redeemed, no more need to run, to struggle, a man
arriving tranquil as she and strong, the street becoming a distant
memory: exactly the one dream that out here she can least allow
herself.

(7)   P191.23-28   From out at sea, the Casino at this hour is a
blazing bijou at the horizon: its foil of palms already shadows in the
dwindling light. Deepening go the yellowbrowns of these small serrated
mountains, sea colored the soft inside of a black olive, white villas,
perched châteaux whole and ruined, autumn greens of copses and
solitary pines, all deepening to the nightscape latent across them all
day.

(8)   P217.40-P218.4   What have the watchmen of world’s edge come
tonight to look for? deepening on now, monumental beings, stoical, on
toward slag, toward ash the color the night will stabilize at, tonight
. . . what is there grandiose enough to witness? only Slothrop here,
and Sir Stephen, blithering along, crossing shadow after long
prison-bar shadow cast by the tall trunks of palms lining the
esplanade.

(9)   P226.19-25   They sit listening to gusts of rain that’s nearly
sleet. Winter gathers, breathes, deepens. A roulette ball goes
rattling, somewhere back in another room. She’s running. Why? Has he
come too close again? He tries to remember if she always needed to
talk this way, in draw-shots, rebounding first before she could touch
him. Fine time to start asking. He’s counter-conspiring in the dark,
jimmying doors at random, no telling what’ll come out. . . .

(10)  P266.8-13   Out again in the city: precision banks, churches,
Gothic doorways drilling by . . . he must avoid the hotel and the
three cafes now, right, right. . . . The permanent Zürchers in
early-evening blue stroll by. Blue as the city twilight, deepening
blue. . . . The spies and dealers have all gone indoors. Semyavin’s
place is out, the Waxwing circle have been kind, no point bringing any
heat down on them.

(11)  P479.14-22   Her look now—this deepening arrest—has already
broken Slothrop’s seeing heart: has broken and broken, that same look
swung as he drove by, thrust away into twilights of moss and crumbling
colony, of skinny clouded-cylinder gas pumps, of tin Moxie signs
gentian and bittersweet as the taste they were there to hustle on the
weathered sides of barns, looked for how many Last Times up in the
rearview mirror, all of them too far inside metal and combustion,
allowing the days’ targets more reality than anything that might come
up by surprise, by Murphy’s Law, where the salvation could be. . . .

(12)  P570.39-P571.6   Takes him an hour to get out to the camp on
foot across a wide meadow whose color is deepening now as if green dye
flowed and seeped into its nap . . . he is aware of each single
grassblade’s shadow reaching into the shadows east of it. . . pure
milk-colored light sweeps up in a bell-curve above the sun nearly
down, transparent white flesh, fading up through many blues, powdery
to dark steel at the zenith . . . why is he out here, doing this? Is
this Ursula the lemming’s idea too, getting mixed up in other people’s
private feuds when he was supposed to be . . . whatever it was . . .
uh. . . .

(13)  P648.28-34  He’s looking into a room of incandescent lemon-lime
subdued drastically, almost to the milky point of absinthe-and-water,
a room warmer than this tableful of faces really deserves, but perhaps
it’s Roger’s entrance that deepens the color a bit now as he runs and
jumps up on the polished table, over the polished head of a director
of a steel company, skidding 20 feet down the waxed surface to
confront the man at the end, who sits with a debonair (well, snotty)
smile on his face.

(14)  P768.25-30   “The signs change, idiot,” snaps Edelman, reaching
for his family-size jar of Thorazine. He has become such a habitual
user of this tran-quilizing drug that his complexion has deepened to
an alarming slate-purple. It makes him an oddity on the street here,
where everybody else walks around suntanned, and red-eyed from one
irritant or another.