GR translation: deepen

[David Morris]

"Deepening" could mean "growing more intense.

On Tue, Dec 13, 2011 at 5:31 AM, Mike Jing
<gravitys.rainbow.cn at gmail.com> wrote:
> 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.