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Traditionally, members of a community such as a town or neighborhood share a common location and a sense of necessary interdependence that includes, for example, mutual respect and emotional support. But as modern societies grow more technological and sometimes more alienating, people tend to spend less time in the kinds of interactions that their communities require in order to thrive. Meanwhile, technology has made it possible for individuals to interact via personal computer with others who are geographically distant. Advocates claim that these computer conferences, in which large numbers of participants communicate by typing comments that are immediately read by other participants and responding immediately to those comments they read, function as communities that can substitute for traditional interactions with neighbors. What are the characteristics that advocates claim allow computer conferences to function as communities? For one, participants often share common interests or concerns; conferences are frequently organized around specific topics such as music or parenting. Second, because these conferences are conversations, participants have adopted certain conventions in recognition of the importance of respecting each others' sensibilities. Abbreviations are used to convey commonly expressed sentiments of courtesy such as "pardon me for cutting in" ( "pmfci" ) or "in my humble opinion" ( "imho" ). Because a humorous tone can be difficult to communicate in writing, participants will often end an intentionally humorous comment with a set of characters that, when looked at sideways, resembles a smiling or winking face. Typing messages entirely in capital letters is avoided, because its tendency to demand the attention of a reader's eye is considered the computer equivalent of shouting. These conventions, advocates claim, constitute a form of etiquette, and with this etiquette as a foundation, people often form genuine, trusting relationships, even offering advice and support during personal crises such as illness or the loss of a loved one. But while it is true that conferences can be both respectful and supportive, they nonetheless fall short of communities. For example, conferences discriminate along educational and economic lines because participation requires a basic knowledge of computers and the ability to afford access to conferences. Further, while advocates claim that a shared interest makes computer conferences similar to traditional communities—insofar as the shared interest is analogous to a traditional community's shared location—this analogy simply does not work. Conference participants are a self-selecting group; they are drawn together by their shared interest in the topic of the conference. Actual communities, on the other hand, are "nonintentional" : the people who inhabit towns or neighborhoods are thus more likely to exhibit genuine diversity—of age, career, or personal interests—than are conference participants. It might be easier to find common ground in a computer conference than in today's communities, but in so doing it would be unfortunate if conference participants cut themselves off further from valuable interactions in their own towns or neighborhoods.

200112_2-RC_1_6

Which one of the following, if true, would most weaken one of the author's arguments in the last paragraph?

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_7

Which one of the following best states the main idea of the passage?

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_8

The passage contains support for which one of the following statements concerning those scholars who analyze works written in Latin during the Renaissance?

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_9

Which one of the following statements concerning the relationship between English and Continental writers of the Renaissance era can be inferred from the passage?

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_10

The author of the passage most likely cites Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Sidney in the first paragraph as examples of writers whose

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_11

Binns would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements concerning the English language writings of Renaissance England traditionally studied by intellectual historians?

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_12

The information in the passage suggests which one of the following concerning late-Renaissance scientific works written in Latin?

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_13

The author of the passage mentions the poet Milton and the scientist Newton primarily in order to

In Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England, J. W. Binns asserts that the drama of Shakespeare, the verse of Marlowe, and the prose of Sidney—all of whom wrote in English—do not alone represent the high culture of Renaissance (roughly sixteenth- and seventeenth-century) England. Latin, the language of ancient Rome, continued during this period to be the dominant form of expression for English intellectuals, and works of law, theology, and science written in Latin were, according to Binns, among the highest achievements of the Renaissance. However, because many academic specializations do not overlap, many texts central to an interpretation of early modern English culture have gone unexamined. Even the most learned students of Renaissance Latin generally confine themselves to humanistic and literary writings in Latin. According to Binns, these language specialists edit and analyze poems and orations, but leave works of theology and science, law and medicine—the very works that revolutionized Western thought—to "specialists" in those fields, historians of science, for example, who lack philological training. The intellectual historian can find ample guidance when reading the Latin poetry of Milton, but little or none when confronting the more alien and difficult terminology, syntax, and content of the scientist Newton. Intellectual historians of Renaissance England, by contrast with Latin language specialists, have surveyed in great detail the historical, cosmological, and theological battles of the day, but too often they have done so on the basis of texts written in or translated into English. Binns argues that these scholars treat the English-language writings of Renaissance England as an autonomous and coherent whole, underestimating the influence on English writers of their counterparts on the European Continent. In so doing they ignore the fact that English intellectuals were educated in schools and universities where they spoke and wrote Latin, and inhabited as adults an intellectual world in which what happened abroad and was recorded in Latin was of great importance. Writers traditionally considered characteristically English and modern were steeped in Latin literature and in the esoteric concerns of late Renaissance humanism (the rediscovery and study of ancient Latin and Greek texts), and many Latin works by Continental humanists that were not translated at the time into any modern language became the bases of classic English works of literature and scholarship. These limitations are understandable. No modern classicist is trained to deal with the range of problems posed by a difficult piece of late Renaissance science; few students of English intellectual history are trained to read the sort of Latin in which such works were written. Yet the result of each side's inability to cross boundaries has been that each presents a distorted reading of the intellectual culture of Renaissance England.

200112_2-RC_2_14

The author of the passage is primarily concerned with presenting which one of the following?

Discussions of how hormones influence behavior have generally been limited to the effects of gonadal hormones on reproductive behavior and have emphasized the parsimonious arrangement whereby the same hormones involved in the biology of reproduction also influence sexual behavior. It has now become clear, however, that other hormones, in addition to their recognized influence on biological functions, can affect behavior. Specifically, peptide and steroid hormones involved in maintaining the physiological balance, or homeostasis, of body fluids also appear to play an important role in the control of water and salt consumption. The phenomenon of homeostasis in animals depends on various mechanisms that promote stability within the organism despite an inconstant external environment; the homeostasis of body fluids, whereby the osmolality (the concentration of solutes) of blood plasma is closely regulated, is achieved primarily through alterations in the intake and excretion of water and sodium, the two principal components of the fluid matrix that surrounds body cells. Appropriate compensatory responses are initiated when deviations from normal are quite small, thereby maintaining plasma osmolality within relatively narrow ranges. In the osmoregulation of body fluids, the movement of water across cell membranes permits minor fluctuations in the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid to be buffered by corresponding changes in the relatively larger volume of cellular water. Nevertheless, the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid may at times become elevated or reduced by more than the allowed tolerances of one or two percent. It is then that complementary physiological and behavioral responses come into play to restore plasma osmolality to normal. Thus, for example, a decrease in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after the consumption of water in excess of need, leads to the excretion of surplus body water in the urine by inhibiting secretion from the pituitary gland of vasopressin, a peptide hormone that promotes water conservation in the kidneys. As might be expected, thirst also is inhibited then, to prevent further dilution of body fluids. Conversely, an increase in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after one eats salty foods or after body water evaporates without being replaced, stimulates the release of vasopressin, increasing the conservation of water and the excretion of solutes in urine. This process is accompanied by increased thirst, with the result of making plasma osmolality more dilute through the consumption of water. The threshold for thirst appears to be slightly higher than for vasopressin secretion, so that thirst is stimulated only after vasopressin has been released in amounts sufficient to produce maximal water retention by the kidneys—that is, only after osmotic dehydration exceeds the capacity of the animal to deal with it physiologically.

200112_2-RC_3_15

Which one of the following best states the main idea of the passage?

Discussions of how hormones influence behavior have generally been limited to the effects of gonadal hormones on reproductive behavior and have emphasized the parsimonious arrangement whereby the same hormones involved in the biology of reproduction also influence sexual behavior. It has now become clear, however, that other hormones, in addition to their recognized influence on biological functions, can affect behavior. Specifically, peptide and steroid hormones involved in maintaining the physiological balance, or homeostasis, of body fluids also appear to play an important role in the control of water and salt consumption. The phenomenon of homeostasis in animals depends on various mechanisms that promote stability within the organism despite an inconstant external environment; the homeostasis of body fluids, whereby the osmolality (the concentration of solutes) of blood plasma is closely regulated, is achieved primarily through alterations in the intake and excretion of water and sodium, the two principal components of the fluid matrix that surrounds body cells. Appropriate compensatory responses are initiated when deviations from normal are quite small, thereby maintaining plasma osmolality within relatively narrow ranges. In the osmoregulation of body fluids, the movement of water across cell membranes permits minor fluctuations in the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid to be buffered by corresponding changes in the relatively larger volume of cellular water. Nevertheless, the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid may at times become elevated or reduced by more than the allowed tolerances of one or two percent. It is then that complementary physiological and behavioral responses come into play to restore plasma osmolality to normal. Thus, for example, a decrease in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after the consumption of water in excess of need, leads to the excretion of surplus body water in the urine by inhibiting secretion from the pituitary gland of vasopressin, a peptide hormone that promotes water conservation in the kidneys. As might be expected, thirst also is inhibited then, to prevent further dilution of body fluids. Conversely, an increase in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after one eats salty foods or after body water evaporates without being replaced, stimulates the release of vasopressin, increasing the conservation of water and the excretion of solutes in urine. This process is accompanied by increased thirst, with the result of making plasma osmolality more dilute through the consumption of water. The threshold for thirst appears to be slightly higher than for vasopressin secretion, so that thirst is stimulated only after vasopressin has been released in amounts sufficient to produce maximal water retention by the kidneys—that is, only after osmotic dehydration exceeds the capacity of the animal to deal with it physiologically.

200112_2-RC_3_16

The author of the passage cites the relationship between gonadal hormones and reproductive behavior in order to

Discussions of how hormones influence behavior have generally been limited to the effects of gonadal hormones on reproductive behavior and have emphasized the parsimonious arrangement whereby the same hormones involved in the biology of reproduction also influence sexual behavior. It has now become clear, however, that other hormones, in addition to their recognized influence on biological functions, can affect behavior. Specifically, peptide and steroid hormones involved in maintaining the physiological balance, or homeostasis, of body fluids also appear to play an important role in the control of water and salt consumption. The phenomenon of homeostasis in animals depends on various mechanisms that promote stability within the organism despite an inconstant external environment; the homeostasis of body fluids, whereby the osmolality (the concentration of solutes) of blood plasma is closely regulated, is achieved primarily through alterations in the intake and excretion of water and sodium, the two principal components of the fluid matrix that surrounds body cells. Appropriate compensatory responses are initiated when deviations from normal are quite small, thereby maintaining plasma osmolality within relatively narrow ranges. In the osmoregulation of body fluids, the movement of water across cell membranes permits minor fluctuations in the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid to be buffered by corresponding changes in the relatively larger volume of cellular water. Nevertheless, the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid may at times become elevated or reduced by more than the allowed tolerances of one or two percent. It is then that complementary physiological and behavioral responses come into play to restore plasma osmolality to normal. Thus, for example, a decrease in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after the consumption of water in excess of need, leads to the excretion of surplus body water in the urine by inhibiting secretion from the pituitary gland of vasopressin, a peptide hormone that promotes water conservation in the kidneys. As might be expected, thirst also is inhibited then, to prevent further dilution of body fluids. Conversely, an increase in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after one eats salty foods or after body water evaporates without being replaced, stimulates the release of vasopressin, increasing the conservation of water and the excretion of solutes in urine. This process is accompanied by increased thirst, with the result of making plasma osmolality more dilute through the consumption of water. The threshold for thirst appears to be slightly higher than for vasopressin secretion, so that thirst is stimulated only after vasopressin has been released in amounts sufficient to produce maximal water retention by the kidneys—that is, only after osmotic dehydration exceeds the capacity of the animal to deal with it physiologically.

200112_2-RC_3_17

It can be inferred from the passage that which one of the following is true of vasopressin?

Discussions of how hormones influence behavior have generally been limited to the effects of gonadal hormones on reproductive behavior and have emphasized the parsimonious arrangement whereby the same hormones involved in the biology of reproduction also influence sexual behavior. It has now become clear, however, that other hormones, in addition to their recognized influence on biological functions, can affect behavior. Specifically, peptide and steroid hormones involved in maintaining the physiological balance, or homeostasis, of body fluids also appear to play an important role in the control of water and salt consumption. The phenomenon of homeostasis in animals depends on various mechanisms that promote stability within the organism despite an inconstant external environment; the homeostasis of body fluids, whereby the osmolality (the concentration of solutes) of blood plasma is closely regulated, is achieved primarily through alterations in the intake and excretion of water and sodium, the two principal components of the fluid matrix that surrounds body cells. Appropriate compensatory responses are initiated when deviations from normal are quite small, thereby maintaining plasma osmolality within relatively narrow ranges. In the osmoregulation of body fluids, the movement of water across cell membranes permits minor fluctuations in the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid to be buffered by corresponding changes in the relatively larger volume of cellular water. Nevertheless, the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid may at times become elevated or reduced by more than the allowed tolerances of one or two percent. It is then that complementary physiological and behavioral responses come into play to restore plasma osmolality to normal. Thus, for example, a decrease in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after the consumption of water in excess of need, leads to the excretion of surplus body water in the urine by inhibiting secretion from the pituitary gland of vasopressin, a peptide hormone that promotes water conservation in the kidneys. As might be expected, thirst also is inhibited then, to prevent further dilution of body fluids. Conversely, an increase in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after one eats salty foods or after body water evaporates without being replaced, stimulates the release of vasopressin, increasing the conservation of water and the excretion of solutes in urine. This process is accompanied by increased thirst, with the result of making plasma osmolality more dilute through the consumption of water. The threshold for thirst appears to be slightly higher than for vasopressin secretion, so that thirst is stimulated only after vasopressin has been released in amounts sufficient to produce maximal water retention by the kidneys—that is, only after osmotic dehydration exceeds the capacity of the animal to deal with it physiologically.

200112_2-RC_3_18

The primary function of the passage as a whole is to

Discussions of how hormones influence behavior have generally been limited to the effects of gonadal hormones on reproductive behavior and have emphasized the parsimonious arrangement whereby the same hormones involved in the biology of reproduction also influence sexual behavior. It has now become clear, however, that other hormones, in addition to their recognized influence on biological functions, can affect behavior. Specifically, peptide and steroid hormones involved in maintaining the physiological balance, or homeostasis, of body fluids also appear to play an important role in the control of water and salt consumption. The phenomenon of homeostasis in animals depends on various mechanisms that promote stability within the organism despite an inconstant external environment; the homeostasis of body fluids, whereby the osmolality (the concentration of solutes) of blood plasma is closely regulated, is achieved primarily through alterations in the intake and excretion of water and sodium, the two principal components of the fluid matrix that surrounds body cells. Appropriate compensatory responses are initiated when deviations from normal are quite small, thereby maintaining plasma osmolality within relatively narrow ranges. In the osmoregulation of body fluids, the movement of water across cell membranes permits minor fluctuations in the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid to be buffered by corresponding changes in the relatively larger volume of cellular water. Nevertheless, the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid may at times become elevated or reduced by more than the allowed tolerances of one or two percent. It is then that complementary physiological and behavioral responses come into play to restore plasma osmolality to normal. Thus, for example, a decrease in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after the consumption of water in excess of need, leads to the excretion of surplus body water in the urine by inhibiting secretion from the pituitary gland of vasopressin, a peptide hormone that promotes water conservation in the kidneys. As might be expected, thirst also is inhibited then, to prevent further dilution of body fluids. Conversely, an increase in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after one eats salty foods or after body water evaporates without being replaced, stimulates the release of vasopressin, increasing the conservation of water and the excretion of solutes in urine. This process is accompanied by increased thirst, with the result of making plasma osmolality more dilute through the consumption of water. The threshold for thirst appears to be slightly higher than for vasopressin secretion, so that thirst is stimulated only after vasopressin has been released in amounts sufficient to produce maximal water retention by the kidneys—that is, only after osmotic dehydration exceeds the capacity of the animal to deal with it physiologically.

200112_2-RC_3_19

According to the passage, all of the following typically occur in the homeostasis of blood-plasma osmolality EXCEPT:

Discussions of how hormones influence behavior have generally been limited to the effects of gonadal hormones on reproductive behavior and have emphasized the parsimonious arrangement whereby the same hormones involved in the biology of reproduction also influence sexual behavior. It has now become clear, however, that other hormones, in addition to their recognized influence on biological functions, can affect behavior. Specifically, peptide and steroid hormones involved in maintaining the physiological balance, or homeostasis, of body fluids also appear to play an important role in the control of water and salt consumption. The phenomenon of homeostasis in animals depends on various mechanisms that promote stability within the organism despite an inconstant external environment; the homeostasis of body fluids, whereby the osmolality (the concentration of solutes) of blood plasma is closely regulated, is achieved primarily through alterations in the intake and excretion of water and sodium, the two principal components of the fluid matrix that surrounds body cells. Appropriate compensatory responses are initiated when deviations from normal are quite small, thereby maintaining plasma osmolality within relatively narrow ranges. In the osmoregulation of body fluids, the movement of water across cell membranes permits minor fluctuations in the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid to be buffered by corresponding changes in the relatively larger volume of cellular water. Nevertheless, the concentration of solutes in extracellular fluid may at times become elevated or reduced by more than the allowed tolerances of one or two percent. It is then that complementary physiological and behavioral responses come into play to restore plasma osmolality to normal. Thus, for example, a decrease in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after the consumption of water in excess of need, leads to the excretion of surplus body water in the urine by inhibiting secretion from the pituitary gland of vasopressin, a peptide hormone that promotes water conservation in the kidneys. As might be expected, thirst also is inhibited then, to prevent further dilution of body fluids. Conversely, an increase in plasma osmolality, such as that which occurs after one eats salty foods or after body water evaporates without being replaced, stimulates the release of vasopressin, increasing the conservation of water and the excretion of solutes in urine. This process is accompanied by increased thirst, with the result of making plasma osmolality more dilute through the consumption of water. The threshold for thirst appears to be slightly higher than for vasopressin secretion, so that thirst is stimulated only after vasopressin has been released in amounts sufficient to produce maximal water retention by the kidneys—that is, only after osmotic dehydration exceeds the capacity of the animal to deal with it physiologically.

200112_2-RC_3_20

According to the passage, the withholding of vasopressin fulfills which one of the following functions in the restoration of plasma osmolality to normal levels?

With the elimination of the apartheid system, South Africa now confronts the transition to a rights-based legal system in a constitutional democracy. Among lawyers and judges, exhilaration over the legal tools soon to be available is tempered by uncertainty about how to use them. The changes in the legal system are significant, not just for human rights lawyers, but for all lawyers—as they will have to learn a less rule-bound and more interpretative way of looking at the law. That is to say, in the past, the parliament was the supreme maker and arbiter of laws; when judges maderulings with which the parliament disagreed, theparliament simply passed new laws to counteract theirrulings. Under the new system, however, aconstitutional court will hear arguments on allconstitutional matters, including questions of whetherthe laws passed by the parliament are valid in light ofthe individual liberties set out in the constitution's billof rights. This shift will lead to extraordinary changes, for South Africa has never before had a legal system based on individual rights—one in which citizens can challenge any law or administrative decision on the basis of their constitutional rights. South African lawyers are concerned about the difficulty of fostering a rights-based culture in a multiracial society containing a wide range of political and personal beliefs simply by including a bill of rights in the constitution and establishing the means for its defense. Because the bill of rights has been drawn in very general terms, the lack of precedents will make the task of determining its precise meaning a bewildering one. With this in mind, the new constitution acknowledges the need to look to other countries for guidance. But some scholars warn that judges, in their rush to fill the constitutional void, may misuse foreign law—they may blindly follow the interpretations given bills of rights in other countries, not taking into account the circumstances in those countries that led to certain decisions. Nonetheless, these scholars are hopeful that, with patience and judicious decisions, South Africa can use international experience in developing a body of precedent that will address the particular needs of its citizens. South Africa must also contend with the image of the law held by many of its citizens. Because the law in South Africa has long been a tool of racial oppression, many of its citizens have come to view obeying the law as implicitly sanctioning an illegitimate, brutal government. Among these South Africans the political climate has thus been one of opposition, and many see it as their duty to cheat the government as much as possible, whether by not paying taxes or by disobeying parking laws. If a rights-based culture is to succeed, the government will need to show its citizens that the legal system is no longer a tool of oppression but instead a way to bring about change and help further the cause of justice.

200112_2-RC_4_21

Which one of the following most completely and accurately states the main point of the passage?

With the elimination of the apartheid system, South Africa now confronts the transition to a rights-based legal system in a constitutional democracy. Among lawyers and judges, exhilaration over the legal tools soon to be available is tempered by uncertainty about how to use them. The changes in the legal system are significant, not just for human rights lawyers, but for all lawyers—as they will have to learn a less rule-bound and more interpretative way of looking at the law. That is to say, in the past, the parliament was the supreme maker and arbiter of laws; when judges maderulings with which the parliament disagreed, theparliament simply passed new laws to counteract theirrulings. Under the new system, however, aconstitutional court will hear arguments on allconstitutional matters, including questions of whetherthe laws passed by the parliament are valid in light ofthe individual liberties set out in the constitution's billof rights. This shift will lead to extraordinary changes, for South Africa has never before had a legal system based on individual rights—one in which citizens can challenge any law or administrative decision on the basis of their constitutional rights. South African lawyers are concerned about the difficulty of fostering a rights-based culture in a multiracial society containing a wide range of political and personal beliefs simply by including a bill of rights in the constitution and establishing the means for its defense. Because the bill of rights has been drawn in very general terms, the lack of precedents will make the task of determining its precise meaning a bewildering one. With this in mind, the new constitution acknowledges the need to look to other countries for guidance. But some scholars warn that judges, in their rush to fill the constitutional void, may misuse foreign law—they may blindly follow the interpretations given bills of rights in other countries, not taking into account the circumstances in those countries that led to certain decisions. Nonetheless, these scholars are hopeful that, with patience and judicious decisions, South Africa can use international experience in developing a body of precedent that will address the particular needs of its citizens. South Africa must also contend with the image of the law held by many of its citizens. Because the law in South Africa has long been a tool of racial oppression, many of its citizens have come to view obeying the law as implicitly sanctioning an illegitimate, brutal government. Among these South Africans the political climate has thus been one of opposition, and many see it as their duty to cheat the government as much as possible, whether by not paying taxes or by disobeying parking laws. If a rights-based culture is to succeed, the government will need to show its citizens that the legal system is no longer a tool of oppression but instead a way to bring about change and help further the cause of justice.

200112_2-RC_4_22

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's primary purpose in lines 10–19?

With the elimination of the apartheid system, South Africa now confronts the transition to a rights-based legal system in a constitutional democracy. Among lawyers and judges, exhilaration over the legal tools soon to be available is tempered by uncertainty about how to use them. The changes in the legal system are significant, not just for human rights lawyers, but for all lawyers—as they will have to learn a less rule-bound and more interpretative way of looking at the law. That is to say, in the past, the parliament was the supreme maker and arbiter of laws; when judges maderulings with which the parliament disagreed, theparliament simply passed new laws to counteract theirrulings. Under the new system, however, aconstitutional court will hear arguments on allconstitutional matters, including questions of whetherthe laws passed by the parliament are valid in light ofthe individual liberties set out in the constitution's billof rights. This shift will lead to extraordinary changes, for South Africa has never before had a legal system based on individual rights—one in which citizens can challenge any law or administrative decision on the basis of their constitutional rights. South African lawyers are concerned about the difficulty of fostering a rights-based culture in a multiracial society containing a wide range of political and personal beliefs simply by including a bill of rights in the constitution and establishing the means for its defense. Because the bill of rights has been drawn in very general terms, the lack of precedents will make the task of determining its precise meaning a bewildering one. With this in mind, the new constitution acknowledges the need to look to other countries for guidance. But some scholars warn that judges, in their rush to fill the constitutional void, may misuse foreign law—they may blindly follow the interpretations given bills of rights in other countries, not taking into account the circumstances in those countries that led to certain decisions. Nonetheless, these scholars are hopeful that, with patience and judicious decisions, South Africa can use international experience in developing a body of precedent that will address the particular needs of its citizens. South Africa must also contend with the image of the law held by many of its citizens. Because the law in South Africa has long been a tool of racial oppression, many of its citizens have come to view obeying the law as implicitly sanctioning an illegitimate, brutal government. Among these South Africans the political climate has thus been one of opposition, and many see it as their duty to cheat the government as much as possible, whether by not paying taxes or by disobeying parking laws. If a rights-based culture is to succeed, the government will need to show its citizens that the legal system is no longer a tool of oppression but instead a way to bring about change and help further the cause of justice.

200112_2-RC_4_23

The passage suggests that the author's attitude toward the possibility of success for a rights-based legal system in South Africa is most likely one of

With the elimination of the apartheid system, South Africa now confronts the transition to a rights-based legal system in a constitutional democracy. Among lawyers and judges, exhilaration over the legal tools soon to be available is tempered by uncertainty about how to use them. The changes in the legal system are significant, not just for human rights lawyers, but for all lawyers—as they will have to learn a less rule-bound and more interpretative way of looking at the law. That is to say, in the past, the parliament was the supreme maker and arbiter of laws; when judges maderulings with which the parliament disagreed, theparliament simply passed new laws to counteract theirrulings. Under the new system, however, aconstitutional court will hear arguments on allconstitutional matters, including questions of whetherthe laws passed by the parliament are valid in light ofthe individual liberties set out in the constitution's billof rights. This shift will lead to extraordinary changes, for South Africa has never before had a legal system based on individual rights—one in which citizens can challenge any law or administrative decision on the basis of their constitutional rights. South African lawyers are concerned about the difficulty of fostering a rights-based culture in a multiracial society containing a wide range of political and personal beliefs simply by including a bill of rights in the constitution and establishing the means for its defense. Because the bill of rights has been drawn in very general terms, the lack of precedents will make the task of determining its precise meaning a bewildering one. With this in mind, the new constitution acknowledges the need to look to other countries for guidance. But some scholars warn that judges, in their rush to fill the constitutional void, may misuse foreign law—they may blindly follow the interpretations given bills of rights in other countries, not taking into account the circumstances in those countries that led to certain decisions. Nonetheless, these scholars are hopeful that, with patience and judicious decisions, South Africa can use international experience in developing a body of precedent that will address the particular needs of its citizens. South Africa must also contend with the image of the law held by many of its citizens. Because the law in South Africa has long been a tool of racial oppression, many of its citizens have come to view obeying the law as implicitly sanctioning an illegitimate, brutal government. Among these South Africans the political climate has thus been one of opposition, and many see it as their duty to cheat the government as much as possible, whether by not paying taxes or by disobeying parking laws. If a rights-based culture is to succeed, the government will need to show its citizens that the legal system is no longer a tool of oppression but instead a way to bring about change and help further the cause of justice.

200112_2-RC_4_24

According to the passage, under the apartheid system the rulings of judges were sometimes counteracted by

With the elimination of the apartheid system, South Africa now confronts the transition to a rights-based legal system in a constitutional democracy. Among lawyers and judges, exhilaration over the legal tools soon to be available is tempered by uncertainty about how to use them. The changes in the legal system are significant, not just for human rights lawyers, but for all lawyers—as they will have to learn a less rule-bound and more interpretative way of looking at the law. That is to say, in the past, the parliament was the supreme maker and arbiter of laws; when judges maderulings with which the parliament disagreed, theparliament simply passed new laws to counteract theirrulings. Under the new system, however, aconstitutional court will hear arguments on allconstitutional matters, including questions of whetherthe laws passed by the parliament are valid in light ofthe individual liberties set out in the constitution's billof rights. This shift will lead to extraordinary changes, for South Africa has never before had a legal system based on individual rights—one in which citizens can challenge any law or administrative decision on the basis of their constitutional rights. South African lawyers are concerned about the difficulty of fostering a rights-based culture in a multiracial society containing a wide range of political and personal beliefs simply by including a bill of rights in the constitution and establishing the means for its defense. Because the bill of rights has been drawn in very general terms, the lack of precedents will make the task of determining its precise meaning a bewildering one. With this in mind, the new constitution acknowledges the need to look to other countries for guidance. But some scholars warn that judges, in their rush to fill the constitutional void, may misuse foreign law—they may blindly follow the interpretations given bills of rights in other countries, not taking into account the circumstances in those countries that led to certain decisions. Nonetheless, these scholars are hopeful that, with patience and judicious decisions, South Africa can use international experience in developing a body of precedent that will address the particular needs of its citizens. South Africa must also contend with the image of the law held by many of its citizens. Because the law in South Africa has long been a tool of racial oppression, many of its citizens have come to view obeying the law as implicitly sanctioning an illegitimate, brutal government. Among these South Africans the political climate has thus been one of opposition, and many see it as their duty to cheat the government as much as possible, whether by not paying taxes or by disobeying parking laws. If a rights-based culture is to succeed, the government will need to show its citizens that the legal system is no longer a tool of oppression but instead a way to bring about change and help further the cause of justice.

200112_2-RC_4_25

Which one of the following most accurately describes the organization of the last paragraph of the passage?

With the elimination of the apartheid system, South Africa now confronts the transition to a rights-based legal system in a constitutional democracy. Among lawyers and judges, exhilaration over the legal tools soon to be available is tempered by uncertainty about how to use them. The changes in the legal system are significant, not just for human rights lawyers, but for all lawyers—as they will have to learn a less rule-bound and more interpretative way of looking at the law. That is to say, in the past, the parliament was the supreme maker and arbiter of laws; when judges maderulings with which the parliament disagreed, theparliament simply passed new laws to counteract theirrulings. Under the new system, however, aconstitutional court will hear arguments on allconstitutional matters, including questions of whetherthe laws passed by the parliament are valid in light ofthe individual liberties set out in the constitution's billof rights. This shift will lead to extraordinary changes, for South Africa has never before had a legal system based on individual rights—one in which citizens can challenge any law or administrative decision on the basis of their constitutional rights. South African lawyers are concerned about the difficulty of fostering a rights-based culture in a multiracial society containing a wide range of political and personal beliefs simply by including a bill of rights in the constitution and establishing the means for its defense. Because the bill of rights has been drawn in very general terms, the lack of precedents will make the task of determining its precise meaning a bewildering one. With this in mind, the new constitution acknowledges the need to look to other countries for guidance. But some scholars warn that judges, in their rush to fill the constitutional void, may misuse foreign law—they may blindly follow the interpretations given bills of rights in other countries, not taking into account the circumstances in those countries that led to certain decisions. Nonetheless, these scholars are hopeful that, with patience and judicious decisions, South Africa can use international experience in developing a body of precedent that will address the particular needs of its citizens. South Africa must also contend with the image of the law held by many of its citizens. Because the law in South Africa has long been a tool of racial oppression, many of its citizens have come to view obeying the law as implicitly sanctioning an illegitimate, brutal government. Among these South Africans the political climate has thus been one of opposition, and many see it as their duty to cheat the government as much as possible, whether by not paying taxes or by disobeying parking laws. If a rights-based culture is to succeed, the government will need to show its citizens that the legal system is no longer a tool of oppression but instead a way to bring about change and help further the cause of justice.

200112_2-RC_4_26

Based on the passage, the scholars mentioned in the second paragraph would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements?

The jury trial is one of the handful of democratic institutions that allow individual citizens, rather than the government, to make important societal decisions. A crucial component of the jury trial, at least in serious criminal cases, is the rule that verdicts be unanimous among the jurors (usually twelve in number). Under this requirement, dissenting jurors must either be convinced of the rightness of the prevailing opinion, or, conversely, persuade the other jurors to change their minds. In either instance, the unanimity requirement compels the jury to deliberate fully and truly before reaching its verdict. Critics of the unanimity requirement, however, see it as a costly relic that extends the deliberation process and sometimes, in a hung (i.e., deadlocked) jury, brings it to a halt at the hands of a single, recalcitrant juror, forcing the judge to order a retrial. Some of these critics recommend reducing verdict requirements to something less than unanimity, so that one or even two dissenting jurors will not be able to force a retrial. But the material costs of hung juries do not warrant losing the benefit to society of the unanimous verdict. Statistically, jury trials are relatively rare; the vast majority of defendants do not have the option of a jury trial or elect to have a trial without a jury ⎯ or they plead guilty to the original or a reduced charge. And the incidence of hung juries is only a small fraction of the already small fraction of cases that receive a jury trial. Furthermore, that juries occasionally deadlock does not demonstrate a flaw in the criminal justice system, but rather suggests that jurors are conscientiously doing the job they have been asked to do. Hung juries usually occur when the case is very close ⎯ that is, when neither side has presented completely convincing evidence ⎯ and although the unanimity requirement may sometimes lead to inconclusive outcomes, a hung jury is certainly preferable to an unjust verdict. Requiring unanimity provides a better chance that a trial, and thus a verdict, will be fair. Innocent people are already occasionally convicted ⎯ perhaps in some cases because jurors presume that anyone who has been brought to trial is probably guilty ⎯ and eliminating the unanimity requirement would only increase the opportunity for such mistakes. Furthermore, if a juror's dissenting opinion can easily be dismissed, an important and necessary part of the deliberation process will be lost, for effective deliberation requires that each juror's opinion be given a fair hearing. Only then can the verdict reached by the jury be said to represent all of its members, and if even one juror has doubts that are dismissed out of hand, society's confidence that a proper verdict has been reached would be undermined.

200206_1-RC_1_1

Which one of the following most accurately states the main point of the passage?

The jury trial is one of the handful of democratic institutions that allow individual citizens, rather than the government, to make important societal decisions. A crucial component of the jury trial, at least in serious criminal cases, is the rule that verdicts be unanimous among the jurors (usually twelve in number). Under this requirement, dissenting jurors must either be convinced of the rightness of the prevailing opinion, or, conversely, persuade the other jurors to change their minds. In either instance, the unanimity requirement compels the jury to deliberate fully and truly before reaching its verdict. Critics of the unanimity requirement, however, see it as a costly relic that extends the deliberation process and sometimes, in a hung (i.e., deadlocked) jury, brings it to a halt at the hands of a single, recalcitrant juror, forcing the judge to order a retrial. Some of these critics recommend reducing verdict requirements to something less than unanimity, so that one or even two dissenting jurors will not be able to force a retrial. But the material costs of hung juries do not warrant losing the benefit to society of the unanimous verdict. Statistically, jury trials are relatively rare; the vast majority of defendants do not have the option of a jury trial or elect to have a trial without a jury ⎯ or they plead guilty to the original or a reduced charge. And the incidence of hung juries is only a small fraction of the already small fraction of cases that receive a jury trial. Furthermore, that juries occasionally deadlock does not demonstrate a flaw in the criminal justice system, but rather suggests that jurors are conscientiously doing the job they have been asked to do. Hung juries usually occur when the case is very close ⎯ that is, when neither side has presented completely convincing evidence ⎯ and although the unanimity requirement may sometimes lead to inconclusive outcomes, a hung jury is certainly preferable to an unjust verdict. Requiring unanimity provides a better chance that a trial, and thus a verdict, will be fair. Innocent people are already occasionally convicted ⎯ perhaps in some cases because jurors presume that anyone who has been brought to trial is probably guilty ⎯ and eliminating the unanimity requirement would only increase the opportunity for such mistakes. Furthermore, if a juror's dissenting opinion can easily be dismissed, an important and necessary part of the deliberation process will be lost, for effective deliberation requires that each juror's opinion be given a fair hearing. Only then can the verdict reached by the jury be said to represent all of its members, and if even one juror has doubts that are dismissed out of hand, society's confidence that a proper verdict has been reached would be undermined.

200206_1-RC_1_2

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's attitude toward the unanimity requirement?

The jury trial is one of the handful of democratic institutions that allow individual citizens, rather than the government, to make important societal decisions. A crucial component of the jury trial, at least in serious criminal cases, is the rule that verdicts be unanimous among the jurors (usually twelve in number). Under this requirement, dissenting jurors must either be convinced of the rightness of the prevailing opinion, or, conversely, persuade the other jurors to change their minds. In either instance, the unanimity requirement compels the jury to deliberate fully and truly before reaching its verdict. Critics of the unanimity requirement, however, see it as a costly relic that extends the deliberation process and sometimes, in a hung (i.e., deadlocked) jury, brings it to a halt at the hands of a single, recalcitrant juror, forcing the judge to order a retrial. Some of these critics recommend reducing verdict requirements to something less than unanimity, so that one or even two dissenting jurors will not be able to force a retrial. But the material costs of hung juries do not warrant losing the benefit to society of the unanimous verdict. Statistically, jury trials are relatively rare; the vast majority of defendants do not have the option of a jury trial or elect to have a trial without a jury ⎯ or they plead guilty to the original or a reduced charge. And the incidence of hung juries is only a small fraction of the already small fraction of cases that receive a jury trial. Furthermore, that juries occasionally deadlock does not demonstrate a flaw in the criminal justice system, but rather suggests that jurors are conscientiously doing the job they have been asked to do. Hung juries usually occur when the case is very close ⎯ that is, when neither side has presented completely convincing evidence ⎯ and although the unanimity requirement may sometimes lead to inconclusive outcomes, a hung jury is certainly preferable to an unjust verdict. Requiring unanimity provides a better chance that a trial, and thus a verdict, will be fair. Innocent people are already occasionally convicted ⎯ perhaps in some cases because jurors presume that anyone who has been brought to trial is probably guilty ⎯ and eliminating the unanimity requirement would only increase the opportunity for such mistakes. Furthermore, if a juror's dissenting opinion can easily be dismissed, an important and necessary part of the deliberation process will be lost, for effective deliberation requires that each juror's opinion be given a fair hearing. Only then can the verdict reached by the jury be said to represent all of its members, and if even one juror has doubts that are dismissed out of hand, society's confidence that a proper verdict has been reached would be undermined.

200206_1-RC_1_3

Which one of the following principles can most clearly be said to underlie the author's arguments in the third paragraph?

The jury trial is one of the handful of democratic institutions that allow individual citizens, rather than the government, to make important societal decisions. A crucial component of the jury trial, at least in serious criminal cases, is the rule that verdicts be unanimous among the jurors (usually twelve in number). Under this requirement, dissenting jurors must either be convinced of the rightness of the prevailing opinion, or, conversely, persuade the other jurors to change their minds. In either instance, the unanimity requirement compels the jury to deliberate fully and truly before reaching its verdict. Critics of the unanimity requirement, however, see it as a costly relic that extends the deliberation process and sometimes, in a hung (i.e., deadlocked) jury, brings it to a halt at the hands of a single, recalcitrant juror, forcing the judge to order a retrial. Some of these critics recommend reducing verdict requirements to something less than unanimity, so that one or even two dissenting jurors will not be able to force a retrial. But the material costs of hung juries do not warrant losing the benefit to society of the unanimous verdict. Statistically, jury trials are relatively rare; the vast majority of defendants do not have the option of a jury trial or elect to have a trial without a jury ⎯ or they plead guilty to the original or a reduced charge. And the incidence of hung juries is only a small fraction of the already small fraction of cases that receive a jury trial. Furthermore, that juries occasionally deadlock does not demonstrate a flaw in the criminal justice system, but rather suggests that jurors are conscientiously doing the job they have been asked to do. Hung juries usually occur when the case is very close ⎯ that is, when neither side has presented completely convincing evidence ⎯ and although the unanimity requirement may sometimes lead to inconclusive outcomes, a hung jury is certainly preferable to an unjust verdict. Requiring unanimity provides a better chance that a trial, and thus a verdict, will be fair. Innocent people are already occasionally convicted ⎯ perhaps in some cases because jurors presume that anyone who has been brought to trial is probably guilty ⎯ and eliminating the unanimity requirement would only increase the opportunity for such mistakes. Furthermore, if a juror's dissenting opinion can easily be dismissed, an important and necessary part of the deliberation process will be lost, for effective deliberation requires that each juror's opinion be given a fair hearing. Only then can the verdict reached by the jury be said to represent all of its members, and if even one juror has doubts that are dismissed out of hand, society's confidence that a proper verdict has been reached would be undermined.

200206_1-RC_1_4

Which one of the following sentences could most logically be added to the end of the last paragraph of the passage?

The jury trial is one of the handful of democratic institutions that allow individual citizens, rather than the government, to make important societal decisions. A crucial component of the jury trial, at least in serious criminal cases, is the rule that verdicts be unanimous among the jurors (usually twelve in number). Under this requirement, dissenting jurors must either be convinced of the rightness of the prevailing opinion, or, conversely, persuade the other jurors to change their minds. In either instance, the unanimity requirement compels the jury to deliberate fully and truly before reaching its verdict. Critics of the unanimity requirement, however, see it as a costly relic that extends the deliberation process and sometimes, in a hung (i.e., deadlocked) jury, brings it to a halt at the hands of a single, recalcitrant juror, forcing the judge to order a retrial. Some of these critics recommend reducing verdict requirements to something less than unanimity, so that one or even two dissenting jurors will not be able to force a retrial. But the material costs of hung juries do not warrant losing the benefit to society of the unanimous verdict. Statistically, jury trials are relatively rare; the vast majority of defendants do not have the option of a jury trial or elect to have a trial without a jury ⎯ or they plead guilty to the original or a reduced charge. And the incidence of hung juries is only a small fraction of the already small fraction of cases that receive a jury trial. Furthermore, that juries occasionally deadlock does not demonstrate a flaw in the criminal justice system, but rather suggests that jurors are conscientiously doing the job they have been asked to do. Hung juries usually occur when the case is very close ⎯ that is, when neither side has presented completely convincing evidence ⎯ and although the unanimity requirement may sometimes lead to inconclusive outcomes, a hung jury is certainly preferable to an unjust verdict. Requiring unanimity provides a better chance that a trial, and thus a verdict, will be fair. Innocent people are already occasionally convicted ⎯ perhaps in some cases because jurors presume that anyone who has been brought to trial is probably guilty ⎯ and eliminating the unanimity requirement would only increase the opportunity for such mistakes. Furthermore, if a juror's dissenting opinion can easily be dismissed, an important and necessary part of the deliberation process will be lost, for effective deliberation requires that each juror's opinion be given a fair hearing. Only then can the verdict reached by the jury be said to represent all of its members, and if even one juror has doubts that are dismissed out of hand, society's confidence that a proper verdict has been reached would be undermined.

200206_1-RC_1_5

Which one of the following could replace the term "recalcitrant" (line 16) without a substantial change in the meaning of the critics' claim?

The jury trial is one of the handful of democratic institutions that allow individual citizens, rather than the government, to make important societal decisions. A crucial component of the jury trial, at least in serious criminal cases, is the rule that verdicts be unanimous among the jurors (usually twelve in number). Under this requirement, dissenting jurors must either be convinced of the rightness of the prevailing opinion, or, conversely, persuade the other jurors to change their minds. In either instance, the unanimity requirement compels the jury to deliberate fully and truly before reaching its verdict. Critics of the unanimity requirement, however, see it as a costly relic that extends the deliberation process and sometimes, in a hung (i.e., deadlocked) jury, brings it to a halt at the hands of a single, recalcitrant juror, forcing the judge to order a retrial. Some of these critics recommend reducing verdict requirements to something less than unanimity, so that one or even two dissenting jurors will not be able to force a retrial. But the material costs of hung juries do not warrant losing the benefit to society of the unanimous verdict. Statistically, jury trials are relatively rare; the vast majority of defendants do not have the option of a jury trial or elect to have a trial without a jury ⎯ or they plead guilty to the original or a reduced charge. And the incidence of hung juries is only a small fraction of the already small fraction of cases that receive a jury trial. Furthermore, that juries occasionally deadlock does not demonstrate a flaw in the criminal justice system, but rather suggests that jurors are conscientiously doing the job they have been asked to do. Hung juries usually occur when the case is very close ⎯ that is, when neither side has presented completely convincing evidence ⎯ and although the unanimity requirement may sometimes lead to inconclusive outcomes, a hung jury is certainly preferable to an unjust verdict. Requiring unanimity provides a better chance that a trial, and thus a verdict, will be fair. Innocent people are already occasionally convicted ⎯ perhaps in some cases because jurors presume that anyone who has been brought to trial is probably guilty ⎯ and eliminating the unanimity requirement would only increase the opportunity for such mistakes. Furthermore, if a juror's dissenting opinion can easily be dismissed, an important and necessary part of the deliberation process will be lost, for effective deliberation requires that each juror's opinion be given a fair hearing. Only then can the verdict reached by the jury be said to represent all of its members, and if even one juror has doubts that are dismissed out of hand, society's confidence that a proper verdict has been reached would be undermined.

200206_1-RC_1_6

The author explicitly claims that which one of the following would be a result of allowing a juror's dissenting opinion to be dismissed?

The jury trial is one of the handful of democratic institutions that allow individual citizens, rather than the government, to make important societal decisions. A crucial component of the jury trial, at least in serious criminal cases, is the rule that verdicts be unanimous among the jurors (usually twelve in number). Under this requirement, dissenting jurors must either be convinced of the rightness of the prevailing opinion, or, conversely, persuade the other jurors to change their minds. In either instance, the unanimity requirement compels the jury to deliberate fully and truly before reaching its verdict. Critics of the unanimity requirement, however, see it as a costly relic that extends the deliberation process and sometimes, in a hung (i.e., deadlocked) jury, brings it to a halt at the hands of a single, recalcitrant juror, forcing the judge to order a retrial. Some of these critics recommend reducing verdict requirements to something less than unanimity, so that one or even two dissenting jurors will not be able to force a retrial. But the material costs of hung juries do not warrant losing the benefit to society of the unanimous verdict. Statistically, jury trials are relatively rare; the vast majority of defendants do not have the option of a jury trial or elect to have a trial without a jury ⎯ or they plead guilty to the original or a reduced charge. And the incidence of hung juries is only a small fraction of the already small fraction of cases that receive a jury trial. Furthermore, that juries occasionally deadlock does not demonstrate a flaw in the criminal justice system, but rather suggests that jurors are conscientiously doing the job they have been asked to do. Hung juries usually occur when the case is very close ⎯ that is, when neither side has presented completely convincing evidence ⎯ and although the unanimity requirement may sometimes lead to inconclusive outcomes, a hung jury is certainly preferable to an unjust verdict. Requiring unanimity provides a better chance that a trial, and thus a verdict, will be fair. Innocent people are already occasionally convicted ⎯ perhaps in some cases because jurors presume that anyone who has been brought to trial is probably guilty ⎯ and eliminating the unanimity requirement would only increase the opportunity for such mistakes. Furthermore, if a juror's dissenting opinion can easily be dismissed, an important and necessary part of the deliberation process will be lost, for effective deliberation requires that each juror's opinion be given a fair hearing. Only then can the verdict reached by the jury be said to represent all of its members, and if even one juror has doubts that are dismissed out of hand, society's confidence that a proper verdict has been reached would be undermined.

200206_1-RC_1_7

It can be inferred from the passage that the author would be most likely to agree with which one of the following?

Spurred by the discovery that a substance containing uranium emitted radiation, Marie Curie began studying radioactivity in 1897. She first tested gold and copper for radiation but found none. She then tested pitchblende, a mineral that was known to contain uranium, and discovered that it was more radioactive than uranium. Acting on the hypothesis that pitchblende must contain at least one other radioactive element, Curie was able to isolate a pair of previously unknown elements, polonium and radium. Turning her attention to the rate of radioactive emission, she discovered that uranium emitted radiation at a consistent rate, even if heated or dissolved. Based on these results, Curie concluded that the emission rate for a given element was constant. Furthermore, because radiation appeared to be spontaneous, with no discernible difference between radiating and nonradiating elements, she was unable to postulate a mechanism by which to explain radiation. It is now known that radiation occurs when certain isotopes (atoms of the same element that differ slightly in their atomic structure) decay, and that emission rates are not constant but decrease very slowly with time. Some critics have recently faulted Curie for not reaching these conclusions herself, but it would have been impossible for Curie to do so given the evidence available to her. While relatively light elements such as gold and copper occasionally have unstable (i.e., radioactive) isotopes, radioactive isotopes of most of these elements are not available in nature because they have largely finished decaying and so have become stable. Conversely, heavier elements such as uranium, which decay into lighter elements in a process that takes billions of years, are present in nature exclusively in radioactive form. Furthermore, we must recall that in Curie's time the nature of the atom itself was still being debated. Physicists believed that matter could not be divided indefinitely but instead would eventually be reduced to its indivisible components. Chemists, on the other hand, observing that chemical reactions took place as if matter was composed of atomlike particles, used the atom as a foundation for conceptualizing and describing such reactions—but they were not ultimately concerned with the question of whether or not such indivisible atoms actually existed. As a physicist, Curie conjectured that radiating substances might lose mass in the form of atoms, but this idea is very different from the explanation eventually arrived at. It was not until the 1930s that advances in quantum mechanics overthrew the earlier understanding of the atom and showed that radiation occurs because the atoms themselves lose mass—a hypothesis that Curie, committed to the indivisible atom, could not be expected to have conceived of. Moreover, not only is Curie's inability to identify the mechanism by which radiation occurs understandable, it is also important to recognize that it was Curie's investigation of radiation that paved the way for the later breakthroughs.

200206_1-RC_2_8

Which one of the following most accurately states the central idea of the passage?

Spurred by the discovery that a substance containing uranium emitted radiation, Marie Curie began studying radioactivity in 1897. She first tested gold and copper for radiation but found none. She then tested pitchblende, a mineral that was known to contain uranium, and discovered that it was more radioactive than uranium. Acting on the hypothesis that pitchblende must contain at least one other radioactive element, Curie was able to isolate a pair of previously unknown elements, polonium and radium. Turning her attention to the rate of radioactive emission, she discovered that uranium emitted radiation at a consistent rate, even if heated or dissolved. Based on these results, Curie concluded that the emission rate for a given element was constant. Furthermore, because radiation appeared to be spontaneous, with no discernible difference between radiating and nonradiating elements, she was unable to postulate a mechanism by which to explain radiation. It is now known that radiation occurs when certain isotopes (atoms of the same element that differ slightly in their atomic structure) decay, and that emission rates are not constant but decrease very slowly with time. Some critics have recently faulted Curie for not reaching these conclusions herself, but it would have been impossible for Curie to do so given the evidence available to her. While relatively light elements such as gold and copper occasionally have unstable (i.e., radioactive) isotopes, radioactive isotopes of most of these elements are not available in nature because they have largely finished decaying and so have become stable. Conversely, heavier elements such as uranium, which decay into lighter elements in a process that takes billions of years, are present in nature exclusively in radioactive form. Furthermore, we must recall that in Curie's time the nature of the atom itself was still being debated. Physicists believed that matter could not be divided indefinitely but instead would eventually be reduced to its indivisible components. Chemists, on the other hand, observing that chemical reactions took place as if matter was composed of atomlike particles, used the atom as a foundation for conceptualizing and describing such reactions—but they were not ultimately concerned with the question of whether or not such indivisible atoms actually existed. As a physicist, Curie conjectured that radiating substances might lose mass in the form of atoms, but this idea is very different from the explanation eventually arrived at. It was not until the 1930s that advances in quantum mechanics overthrew the earlier understanding of the atom and showed that radiation occurs because the atoms themselves lose mass—a hypothesis that Curie, committed to the indivisible atom, could not be expected to have conceived of. Moreover, not only is Curie's inability to identify the mechanism by which radiation occurs understandable, it is also important to recognize that it was Curie's investigation of radiation that paved the way for the later breakthroughs.

200206_1-RC_2_9

The passage suggests that the author would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements about the contemporary critics of Curie's studies of radioactivity?

Spurred by the discovery that a substance containing uranium emitted radiation, Marie Curie began studying radioactivity in 1897. She first tested gold and copper for radiation but found none. She then tested pitchblende, a mineral that was known to contain uranium, and discovered that it was more radioactive than uranium. Acting on the hypothesis that pitchblende must contain at least one other radioactive element, Curie was able to isolate a pair of previously unknown elements, polonium and radium. Turning her attention to the rate of radioactive emission, she discovered that uranium emitted radiation at a consistent rate, even if heated or dissolved. Based on these results, Curie concluded that the emission rate for a given element was constant. Furthermore, because radiation appeared to be spontaneous, with no discernible difference between radiating and nonradiating elements, she was unable to postulate a mechanism by which to explain radiation. It is now known that radiation occurs when certain isotopes (atoms of the same element that differ slightly in their atomic structure) decay, and that emission rates are not constant but decrease very slowly with time. Some critics have recently faulted Curie for not reaching these conclusions herself, but it would have been impossible for Curie to do so given the evidence available to her. While relatively light elements such as gold and copper occasionally have unstable (i.e., radioactive) isotopes, radioactive isotopes of most of these elements are not available in nature because they have largely finished decaying and so have become stable. Conversely, heavier elements such as uranium, which decay into lighter elements in a process that takes billions of years, are present in nature exclusively in radioactive form. Furthermore, we must recall that in Curie's time the nature of the atom itself was still being debated. Physicists believed that matter could not be divided indefinitely but instead would eventually be reduced to its indivisible components. Chemists, on the other hand, observing that chemical reactions took place as if matter was composed of atomlike particles, used the atom as a foundation for conceptualizing and describing such reactions—but they were not ultimately concerned with the question of whether or not such indivisible atoms actually existed. As a physicist, Curie conjectured that radiating substances might lose mass in the form of atoms, but this idea is very different from the explanation eventually arrived at. It was not until the 1930s that advances in quantum mechanics overthrew the earlier understanding of the atom and showed that radiation occurs because the atoms themselves lose mass—a hypothesis that Curie, committed to the indivisible atom, could not be expected to have conceived of. Moreover, not only is Curie's inability to identify the mechanism by which radiation occurs understandable, it is also important to recognize that it was Curie's investigation of radiation that paved the way for the later breakthroughs.

200206_1-RC_2_10

The passage implies which one of the following with regard to the time at which Curie began studying radioactivity?

Spurred by the discovery that a substance containing uranium emitted radiation, Marie Curie began studying radioactivity in 1897. She first tested gold and copper for radiation but found none. She then tested pitchblende, a mineral that was known to contain uranium, and discovered that it was more radioactive than uranium. Acting on the hypothesis that pitchblende must contain at least one other radioactive element, Curie was able to isolate a pair of previously unknown elements, polonium and radium. Turning her attention to the rate of radioactive emission, she discovered that uranium emitted radiation at a consistent rate, even if heated or dissolved. Based on these results, Curie concluded that the emission rate for a given element was constant. Furthermore, because radiation appeared to be spontaneous, with no discernible difference between radiating and nonradiating elements, she was unable to postulate a mechanism by which to explain radiation. It is now known that radiation occurs when certain isotopes (atoms of the same element that differ slightly in their atomic structure) decay, and that emission rates are not constant but decrease very slowly with time. Some critics have recently faulted Curie for not reaching these conclusions herself, but it would have been impossible for Curie to do so given the evidence available to her. While relatively light elements such as gold and copper occasionally have unstable (i.e., radioactive) isotopes, radioactive isotopes of most of these elements are not available in nature because they have largely finished decaying and so have become stable. Conversely, heavier elements such as uranium, which decay into lighter elements in a process that takes billions of years, are present in nature exclusively in radioactive form. Furthermore, we must recall that in Curie's time the nature of the atom itself was still being debated. Physicists believed that matter could not be divided indefinitely but instead would eventually be reduced to its indivisible components. Chemists, on the other hand, observing that chemical reactions took place as if matter was composed of atomlike particles, used the atom as a foundation for conceptualizing and describing such reactions—but they were not ultimately concerned with the question of whether or not such indivisible atoms actually existed. As a physicist, Curie conjectured that radiating substances might lose mass in the form of atoms, but this idea is very different from the explanation eventually arrived at. It was not until the 1930s that advances in quantum mechanics overthrew the earlier understanding of the atom and showed that radiation occurs because the atoms themselves lose mass—a hypothesis that Curie, committed to the indivisible atom, could not be expected to have conceived of. Moreover, not only is Curie's inability to identify the mechanism by which radiation occurs understandable, it is also important to recognize that it was Curie's investigation of radiation that paved the way for the later breakthroughs.

200206_1-RC_2_11

The author's primary purpose in the passage is to

Spurred by the discovery that a substance containing uranium emitted radiation, Marie Curie began studying radioactivity in 1897. She first tested gold and copper for radiation but found none. She then tested pitchblende, a mineral that was known to contain uranium, and discovered that it was more radioactive than uranium. Acting on the hypothesis that pitchblende must contain at least one other radioactive element, Curie was able to isolate a pair of previously unknown elements, polonium and radium. Turning her attention to the rate of radioactive emission, she discovered that uranium emitted radiation at a consistent rate, even if heated or dissolved. Based on these results, Curie concluded that the emission rate for a given element was constant. Furthermore, because radiation appeared to be spontaneous, with no discernible difference between radiating and nonradiating elements, she was unable to postulate a mechanism by which to explain radiation. It is now known that radiation occurs when certain isotopes (atoms of the same element that differ slightly in their atomic structure) decay, and that emission rates are not constant but decrease very slowly with time. Some critics have recently faulted Curie for not reaching these conclusions herself, but it would have been impossible for Curie to do so given the evidence available to her. While relatively light elements such as gold and copper occasionally have unstable (i.e., radioactive) isotopes, radioactive isotopes of most of these elements are not available in nature because they have largely finished decaying and so have become stable. Conversely, heavier elements such as uranium, which decay into lighter elements in a process that takes billions of years, are present in nature exclusively in radioactive form. Furthermore, we must recall that in Curie's time the nature of the atom itself was still being debated. Physicists believed that matter could not be divided indefinitely but instead would eventually be reduced to its indivisible components. Chemists, on the other hand, observing that chemical reactions took place as if matter was composed of atomlike particles, used the atom as a foundation for conceptualizing and describing such reactions—but they were not ultimately concerned with the question of whether or not such indivisible atoms actually existed. As a physicist, Curie conjectured that radiating substances might lose mass in the form of atoms, but this idea is very different from the explanation eventually arrived at. It was not until the 1930s that advances in quantum mechanics overthrew the earlier understanding of the atom and showed that radiation occurs because the atoms themselves lose mass—a hypothesis that Curie, committed to the indivisible atom, could not be expected to have conceived of. Moreover, not only is Curie's inability to identify the mechanism by which radiation occurs understandable, it is also important to recognize that it was Curie's investigation of radiation that paved the way for the later breakthroughs.

200206_1-RC_2_12

The primary function of the first paragraph of the passage is to

Spurred by the discovery that a substance containing uranium emitted radiation, Marie Curie began studying radioactivity in 1897. She first tested gold and copper for radiation but found none. She then tested pitchblende, a mineral that was known to contain uranium, and discovered that it was more radioactive than uranium. Acting on the hypothesis that pitchblende must contain at least one other radioactive element, Curie was able to isolate a pair of previously unknown elements, polonium and radium. Turning her attention to the rate of radioactive emission, she discovered that uranium emitted radiation at a consistent rate, even if heated or dissolved. Based on these results, Curie concluded that the emission rate for a given element was constant. Furthermore, because radiation appeared to be spontaneous, with no discernible difference between radiating and nonradiating elements, she was unable to postulate a mechanism by which to explain radiation. It is now known that radiation occurs when certain isotopes (atoms of the same element that differ slightly in their atomic structure) decay, and that emission rates are not constant but decrease very slowly with time. Some critics have recently faulted Curie for not reaching these conclusions herself, but it would have been impossible for Curie to do so given the evidence available to her. While relatively light elements such as gold and copper occasionally have unstable (i.e., radioactive) isotopes, radioactive isotopes of most of these elements are not available in nature because they have largely finished decaying and so have become stable. Conversely, heavier elements such as uranium, which decay into lighter elements in a process that takes billions of years, are present in nature exclusively in radioactive form. Furthermore, we must recall that in Curie's time the nature of the atom itself was still being debated. Physicists believed that matter could not be divided indefinitely but instead would eventually be reduced to its indivisible components. Chemists, on the other hand, observing that chemical reactions took place as if matter was composed of atomlike particles, used the atom as a foundation for conceptualizing and describing such reactions—but they were not ultimately concerned with the question of whether or not such indivisible atoms actually existed. As a physicist, Curie conjectured that radiating substances might lose mass in the form of atoms, but this idea is very different from the explanation eventually arrived at. It was not until the 1930s that advances in quantum mechanics overthrew the earlier understanding of the atom and showed that radiation occurs because the atoms themselves lose mass—a hypothesis that Curie, committed to the indivisible atom, could not be expected to have conceived of. Moreover, not only is Curie's inability to identify the mechanism by which radiation occurs understandable, it is also important to recognize that it was Curie's investigation of radiation that paved the way for the later breakthroughs.

200206_1-RC_2_13

Which one of the following most accurately expresses the meaning of the word "mechanism" as used by the author in the last sentence of the first paragraph?

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_14

It can be inferred from the passage that the author most clearly holds which one of the following views?

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_15

Based on the passage, Ellison's critics would most likely have responded favorably to Invisible Man if it had

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_16

The expression "cultural segregation in the arts" (lines 22-23) most clearly refers to

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_17

The primary purpose of the third paragraph is to

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_18

Which one of the following statements about jazz is made in the passage?

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_19

It can be inferred from the passage that Ellison most clearly holds which one of the following views regarding an audience's relationship to works of art?

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_20

The primary purpose of the passage is to

Published in 1952, Invisible Man featured a protagonist whose activities enabled the novel's author, Ralph Ellison, to explore and to blend themes specifically tied to the history and plight of African Americans with themes, also explored by many European writers with whose works Ellison was familiar, about the fractured, evanescent quality of individual identity and character. For this thematic blend, Ellison received two related criticisms: that his allegiance to the concerns of the individual prevented him from directing his art more toward the political action that critics believed was demanded by his era's social and political state of affairs; and that his indulging in European fictional modes lessened his contribution to the development of a distinctly African American novelistic style. Ellison found these criticisms to voice a common demand, namely that writers should censor themselves and sacrifice their individuality for supposedly more important political and cultural purposes. He replied that it demeans a people and its artists to suggest that a particular historical situation requires cultural segregation in the arts. Such a view characterizes all artists as incapable of seeing the world—with all its subtleties and complications—in unique yet expressive ways, and it makes the narrow assumption that audiences are capable of viewing the world only from their own perspectives. Models for understanding Invisible Man that may be of more help than those employed by its critics can be found in Ellison's own love for and celebration of jazz. Jazz has never closed itself off from other musical forms, and some jazz musicians have been able to take the European-influenced songs of U.S. theater and transform them into musical pieces that are unique and personal but also expressive of African American culture. In like manner, Ellison avoided the mere recapitulation of existing literary forms as well as the constraints of artistic isolation by using his work to explore and express the issues of identity and character that had so interested European writers. Further, jazz, featuring solos that, however daring, remain rooted in the band's rhythm section, provides a rich model for understanding the relationship of artist to community and parallels the ways the protagonist's voice in Invisible Man is set within a wider communal context. Ellison's explorations in the novel, often in the manner of loving caricature, of the ideas left him by both European and African American predecessors are a form of homage to them and thus ameliorate the sense of alienation he expresses through the protagonist. And even though Invisible Man's protagonist lives alone in a basement, Ellison proves that an individual whose unique voice is the result of the transmutation of a cultural inheritance can never be completely cut off from the community.

200206_1-RC_3_21

The passage provides information to answer each of the following questions EXCEPT:

Recent investigations into the psychology of decision making have sparked interest among scholars seeking to understand why governments sometimes take gambles that appear theoretically unjustifiable on the basis of expected costs and benefits. Researchers have demonstrated some significant discrepancies between objective measurements of possible decision outcomes and the ways in which people subjectively value such possible results. Many of these discrepancies relate to the observation that a possible outcome perceived as a loss typically motivates more strongly than the prospect of an equivalent gain. Risk-taking is thus a more common strategy for those who believe they will lose what they already possess than it is for those who wish to gain something they do not have. Previously,the notion that rational decision makers prefer risk-avoiding choices was considered to apply generally,epitomized by the assumption of many economists that entrepreneurs and consumers will choose a risky venture over a sure thing only when the expected measurable value of the outcome is sufficiently high to compensate the decision maker for taking the risk.What is the minimum prize that would be required to make a gamble involving a 50 percent chance of losing $100 and a 50 percent chance of winning the prize acceptable? It is commonplace that the pleasure of winning a sum of money is much less intense than the pain of losing the same amount; accordingly, such a gamble would typically be accepted only when the possible gain greatly exceeds the possible loss.Research subjects do,in fact,commonly judge that a 50 percent chance to lose $100 is unacceptable unless it is combined with an equal chance to win more than $300. Nevertheless, the recent studies indicate that risk-accepting strategies are common when the alternative to a sure loss is a substantial chance of losing an even larger amount, coupled with some chance—even a small one—of losing nothing. Such observations are quite salient to scholars of international conflict and crisis. For example, governments typically are cautious in foreign policy initiatives that entail risk, especially the risk of armed conflict. But nations also often take huge gambles to retrieve what they perceive to have been taken from them by other nations. This type of motivation, then, can lead states to take risks that far outweigh the objectively measurable value of the lost assets. For example, when Britain and Argentina entered into armed conflict in 1982 over possession of the Falkland Islands—or Malvinas, as they are called in Spanish— each viewed the islands as territory that had been taken from them by the other; thus each was willing to commit enormous resources—and risks—to recapturing them. In international affairs, it is vital that each actor in such a situation understand the other's subjective view of what is at stake.

200206_1-RC_4_22

Suppose that a country seizes a piece of territory with great mineral wealth that is claimed by a neighboring country, with a concomitant risk of failure involving moderate but easily tolerable harm in the long run. Given the information in the passage, the author would most likely say that

Recent investigations into the psychology of decision making have sparked interest among scholars seeking to understand why governments sometimes take gambles that appear theoretically unjustifiable on the basis of expected costs and benefits. Researchers have demonstrated some significant discrepancies between objective measurements of possible decision outcomes and the ways in which people subjectively value such possible results. Many of these discrepancies relate to the observation that a possible outcome perceived as a loss typically motivates more strongly than the prospect of an equivalent gain. Risk-taking is thus a more common strategy for those who believe they will lose what they already possess than it is for those who wish to gain something they do not have. Previously,the notion that rational decision makers prefer risk-avoiding choices was considered to apply generally,epitomized by the assumption of many economists that entrepreneurs and consumers will choose a risky venture over a sure thing only when the expected measurable value of the outcome is sufficiently high to compensate the decision maker for taking the risk.What is the minimum prize that would be required to make a gamble involving a 50 percent chance of losing $100 and a 50 percent chance of winning the prize acceptable? It is commonplace that the pleasure of winning a sum of money is much less intense than the pain of losing the same amount; accordingly, such a gamble would typically be accepted only when the possible gain greatly exceeds the possible loss.Research subjects do,in fact,commonly judge that a 50 percent chance to lose $100 is unacceptable unless it is combined with an equal chance to win more than $300. Nevertheless, the recent studies indicate that risk-accepting strategies are common when the alternative to a sure loss is a substantial chance of losing an even larger amount, coupled with some chance—even a small one—of losing nothing. Such observations are quite salient to scholars of international conflict and crisis. For example, governments typically are cautious in foreign policy initiatives that entail risk, especially the risk of armed conflict. But nations also often take huge gambles to retrieve what they perceive to have been taken from them by other nations. This type of motivation, then, can lead states to take risks that far outweigh the objectively measurable value of the lost assets. For example, when Britain and Argentina entered into armed conflict in 1982 over possession of the Falkland Islands—or Malvinas, as they are called in Spanish— each viewed the islands as territory that had been taken from them by the other; thus each was willing to commit enormous resources—and risks—to recapturing them. In international affairs, it is vital that each actor in such a situation understand the other's subjective view of what is at stake.

200206_1-RC_4_23

The question in lines 24-27functions primarily as

Recent investigations into the psychology of decision making have sparked interest among scholars seeking to understand why governments sometimes take gambles that appear theoretically unjustifiable on the basis of expected costs and benefits. Researchers have demonstrated some significant discrepancies between objective measurements of possible decision outcomes and the ways in which people subjectively value such possible results. Many of these discrepancies relate to the observation that a possible outcome perceived as a loss typically motivates more strongly than the prospect of an equivalent gain. Risk-taking is thus a more common strategy for those who believe they will lose what they already possess than it is for those who wish to gain something they do not have. Previously,the notion that rational decision makers prefer risk-avoiding choices was considered to apply generally,epitomized by the assumption of many economists that entrepreneurs and consumers will choose a risky venture over a sure thing only when the expected measurable value of the outcome is sufficiently high to compensate the decision maker for taking the risk.What is the minimum prize that would be required to make a gamble involving a 50 percent chance of losing $100 and a 50 percent chance of winning the prize acceptable? It is commonplace that the pleasure of winning a sum of money is much less intense than the pain of losing the same amount; accordingly, such a gamble would typically be accepted only when the possible gain greatly exceeds the possible loss.Research subjects do,in fact,commonly judge that a 50 percent chance to lose $100 is unacceptable unless it is combined with an equal chance to win more than $300. Nevertheless, the recent studies indicate that risk-accepting strategies are common when the alternative to a sure loss is a substantial chance of losing an even larger amount, coupled with some chance—even a small one—of losing nothing. Such observations are quite salient to scholars of international conflict and crisis. For example, governments typically are cautious in foreign policy initiatives that entail risk, especially the risk of armed conflict. But nations also often take huge gambles to retrieve what they perceive to have been taken from them by other nations. This type of motivation, then, can lead states to take risks that far outweigh the objectively measurable value of the lost assets. For example, when Britain and Argentina entered into armed conflict in 1982 over possession of the Falkland Islands—or Malvinas, as they are called in Spanish— each viewed the islands as territory that had been taken from them by the other; thus each was willing to commit enormous resources—and risks—to recapturing them. In international affairs, it is vital that each actor in such a situation understand the other's subjective view of what is at stake.

200206_1-RC_4_24

It can most reasonably be inferred from the passage that the author would agree with which one of the following statements?

Recent investigations into the psychology of decision making have sparked interest among scholars seeking to understand why governments sometimes take gambles that appear theoretically unjustifiable on the basis of expected costs and benefits. Researchers have demonstrated some significant discrepancies between objective measurements of possible decision outcomes and the ways in which people subjectively value such possible results. Many of these discrepancies relate to the observation that a possible outcome perceived as a loss typically motivates more strongly than the prospect of an equivalent gain. Risk-taking is thus a more common strategy for those who believe they will lose what they already possess than it is for those who wish to gain something they do not have. Previously,the notion that rational decision makers prefer risk-avoiding choices was considered to apply generally,epitomized by the assumption of many economists that entrepreneurs and consumers will choose a risky venture over a sure thing only when the expected measurable value of the outcome is sufficiently high to compensate the decision maker for taking the risk.What is the minimum prize that would be required to make a gamble involving a 50 percent chance of losing $100 and a 50 percent chance of winning the prize acceptable? It is commonplace that the pleasure of winning a sum of money is much less intense than the pain of losing the same amount; accordingly, such a gamble would typically be accepted only when the possible gain greatly exceeds the possible loss.Research subjects do,in fact,commonly judge that a 50 percent chance to lose $100 is unacceptable unless it is combined with an equal chance to win more than $300. Nevertheless, the recent studies indicate that risk-accepting strategies are common when the alternative to a sure loss is a substantial chance of losing an even larger amount, coupled with some chance—even a small one—of losing nothing. Such observations are quite salient to scholars of international conflict and crisis. For example, governments typically are cautious in foreign policy initiatives that entail risk, especially the risk of armed conflict. But nations also often take huge gambles to retrieve what they perceive to have been taken from them by other nations. This type of motivation, then, can lead states to take risks that far outweigh the objectively measurable value of the lost assets. For example, when Britain and Argentina entered into armed conflict in 1982 over possession of the Falkland Islands—or Malvinas, as they are called in Spanish— each viewed the islands as territory that had been taken from them by the other; thus each was willing to commit enormous resources—and risks—to recapturing them. In international affairs, it is vital that each actor in such a situation understand the other's subjective view of what is at stake.

200206_1-RC_4_25

The passage can be most accurately described as

Recent investigations into the psychology of decision making have sparked interest among scholars seeking to understand why governments sometimes take gambles that appear theoretically unjustifiable on the basis of expected costs and benefits. Researchers have demonstrated some significant discrepancies between objective measurements of possible decision outcomes and the ways in which people subjectively value such possible results. Many of these discrepancies relate to the observation that a possible outcome perceived as a loss typically motivates more strongly than the prospect of an equivalent gain. Risk-taking is thus a more common strategy for those who believe they will lose what they already possess than it is for those who wish to gain something they do not have. Previously,the notion that rational decision makers prefer risk-avoiding choices was considered to apply generally,epitomized by the assumption of many economists that entrepreneurs and consumers will choose a risky venture over a sure thing only when the expected measurable value of the outcome is sufficiently high to compensate the decision maker for taking the risk.What is the minimum prize that would be required to make a gamble involving a 50 percent chance of losing $100 and a 50 percent chance of winning the prize acceptable? It is commonplace that the pleasure of winning a sum of money is much less intense than the pain of losing the same amount; accordingly, such a gamble would typically be accepted only when the possible gain greatly exceeds the possible loss.Research subjects do,in fact,commonly judge that a 50 percent chance to lose $100 is unacceptable unless it is combined with an equal chance to win more than $300. Nevertheless, the recent studies indicate that risk-accepting strategies are common when the alternative to a sure loss is a substantial chance of losing an even larger amount, coupled with some chance—even a small one—of losing nothing. Such observations are quite salient to scholars of international conflict and crisis. For example, governments typically are cautious in foreign policy initiatives that entail risk, especially the risk of armed conflict. But nations also often take huge gambles to retrieve what they perceive to have been taken from them by other nations. This type of motivation, then, can lead states to take risks that far outweigh the objectively measurable value of the lost assets. For example, when Britain and Argentina entered into armed conflict in 1982 over possession of the Falkland Islands—or Malvinas, as they are called in Spanish— each viewed the islands as territory that had been taken from them by the other; thus each was willing to commit enormous resources—and risks—to recapturing them. In international affairs, it is vital that each actor in such a situation understand the other's subjective view of what is at stake.

200206_1-RC_4_26

The passage most clearly suggests that the author would agree with which one of the following statements?

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_1

Which one of the following most accurately expresses the main idea of the passage?

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_2

It can be inferred that a forest burned as described in the passage would have been LEAST likely to display

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_3

Which one of the following is a type of forest identified by the author as a product of controlled burning in recent times?

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_4

Which one of the following is presented by the author as evidence of controlled burning in the tropics before the arrival of Europeans?

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_5

With which one of the following would the author be most likely to agree?

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_6

As evidence for the routine practice of forest burning by native populations before the arrival of Europeans, the author cites all of the following EXCEPT:

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_7

The "succession" mentioned in line 57 refers to

The myth persists that in 1492 the Western Hemisphere was an untamed wilderness and that it was European settlers who harnessed and transformed its ecosystems. But scholarship shows that forests, in particular, had been altered to varying degrees well before the arrival of Europeans. Native populations had converted much of the forests to successfully cultivated stands, especially by means of burning. Nevertheless, some researchers have maintained that the extent, frequency, and impact of such burning was minimal. One geographer claims that climatic change could have accounted for some of the changes in forest composition; another argues that burning by native populations was done only sporadically, to augment the effects of natural fires. However, a large body of evidence for the routine practice of burning exists in the geographical record. One group of researchers found, for example, that sedimentary charcoal accumulations in what is now the northeastern United States are greatest where known native American settlements were greatest. Other evidence shows that, while the characteristics and impact of fires set by native populations varied regionally according to population size, extent of resource management techniques, and environment, all such fires had markedly different effects on vegetation patterns than did natural fires. Controlled burning created grassy openings such as meadows and glades. Burning also promoted a mosaic quality to North and South American ecosystems, creating forests in many different stages of ecological development. Much of the mature forestland was characterized by open, herbaceous undergrowth, another result of the clearing brought about by burning. In North America, controlled burning created conditions favorable to berries and other fire-tolerant and sun-loving foods. Burning also converted mixed stands of trees to homogeneous forest, for example the longleaf, slash pine, and scrub oak forests of the southeastern U.S. Natural fires do account for some of this vegetation, but regular burning clearly extended and maintained it. Burning also influenced forest composition in the tropics, where natural fires are rare. An example is the pine-dominant forests of Nicaragua, where warm temperatures and heavy rainfall naturally favor mixed tropical or rain forests. While there are extensive pine forests in Guatemala and Mexico, these primarily grow in cooler, drier, higher elevations, regions where such vegetation is in large part natural and even prehuman. Today, the Nicaraguan pines occur where there has been clearing followed by regular burning, and the same is likely to have occurred in the past: such forests were present when Europeans arrived and were found only in areas where native settlements were substantial; when these settlements were abandoned, the land returned to mixed hardwoods. This succession is also evident elsewhere in similar low tropical elevations in the Caribbean and Mexico.

200210_3-RC_1_8

The primary purpose of the passage is to

Intellectual authority is defined as the authority of arguments that prevail by virtue of good reasoning and do not depend on coercion or convention. A contrasting notion, institutional authority, refers to the power of social institutions to enforce acceptance of arguments that may or may not possess intellectual authority. The authority wielded by legal systems is especially interesting because such systems are institutions that nonetheless aspire to a purely intellectual authority. One judge goes so far as to claim that courts are merely passive vehicles for applying the intellectual authority of the law and possess no coercive powers of their own. In contrast, some critics maintain that whatever authority judicial pronouncements have is exclusively institutional. Some of these critics go further, claiming that intellectual authority does not really exist—i.e., it reduces to institutional authority. But it can be countered that these claims break down when a sufficiently broad historical perspective is taken: Not all arguments accepted by institutions withstand the test of time, and some well-reasoned arguments never receive institutional imprimatur. The reasonable argument that goes unrecognized in its own time because it challenges institutional beliefs is common in intellectual history; intellectual authority and institutional consensus are not the same thing. But, the critics might respond, intellectual authority is only recognized as such because of institutional consensus. For example, if a musicologist were to claim that an alleged musical genius who, after several decades, had not gained respect and recognition for his or her compositions is probably not a genius, the critics might say that basing a judgment on a unit of time— "several decades" —is an institutional rather than an intellectual construct. What, the critics might ask, makes a particular number of decades reasonable evidence by which to judge genius? The answer, of course, is nothing, except for the fact that such institutional procedures have proved useful to musicologists in making such distinctions in the past. The analogous legal concept is the doctrine of precedent, i.e., a judge's merely deciding a case a certain way becoming a basis for deciding later cases the same way—a pure example of institutional authority. But the critics miss the crucial distinction that when a judicial decision is badly reasoned, or simply no longer applies in the face of evolving social standards or practices, the notion of intellectual authority is introduced: judges reconsider, revise, or in some cases throw out the decision. The conflict between intellectual and institutional authority in legal systems is thus played out in the reconsideration of decisions, leading one to draw the conclusion that legal systems contain a significant degree of intellectual authority even if the thrust of their power is predominantly institutional.

200210_3-RC_2_9

Which one of the following most accurately states the main idea of the passage?

Intellectual authority is defined as the authority of arguments that prevail by virtue of good reasoning and do not depend on coercion or convention. A contrasting notion, institutional authority, refers to the power of social institutions to enforce acceptance of arguments that may or may not possess intellectual authority. The authority wielded by legal systems is especially interesting because such systems are institutions that nonetheless aspire to a purely intellectual authority. One judge goes so far as to claim that courts are merely passive vehicles for applying the intellectual authority of the law and possess no coercive powers of their own. In contrast, some critics maintain that whatever authority judicial pronouncements have is exclusively institutional. Some of these critics go further, claiming that intellectual authority does not really exist—i.e., it reduces to institutional authority. But it can be countered that these claims break down when a sufficiently broad historical perspective is taken: Not all arguments accepted by institutions withstand the test of time, and some well-reasoned arguments never receive institutional imprimatur. The reasonable argument that goes unrecognized in its own time because it challenges institutional beliefs is common in intellectual history; intellectual authority and institutional consensus are not the same thing. But, the critics might respond, intellectual authority is only recognized as such because of institutional consensus. For example, if a musicologist were to claim that an alleged musical genius who, after several decades, had not gained respect and recognition for his or her compositions is probably not a genius, the critics might say that basing a judgment on a unit of time— "several decades" —is an institutional rather than an intellectual construct. What, the critics might ask, makes a particular number of decades reasonable evidence by which to judge genius? The answer, of course, is nothing, except for the fact that such institutional procedures have proved useful to musicologists in making such distinctions in the past. The analogous legal concept is the doctrine of precedent, i.e., a judge's merely deciding a case a certain way becoming a basis for deciding later cases the same way—a pure example of institutional authority. But the critics miss the crucial distinction that when a judicial decision is badly reasoned, or simply no longer applies in the face of evolving social standards or practices, the notion of intellectual authority is introduced: judges reconsider, revise, or in some cases throw out the decision. The conflict between intellectual and institutional authority in legal systems is thus played out in the reconsideration of decisions, leading one to draw the conclusion that legal systems contain a significant degree of intellectual authority even if the thrust of their power is predominantly institutional.

200210_3-RC_2_10

That some arguments "never receive institutional imprimatur" (lines 22–23) most likely means that these arguments

Intellectual authority is defined as the authority of arguments that prevail by virtue of good reasoning and do not depend on coercion or convention. A contrasting notion, institutional authority, refers to the power of social institutions to enforce acceptance of arguments that may or may not possess intellectual authority. The authority wielded by legal systems is especially interesting because such systems are institutions that nonetheless aspire to a purely intellectual authority. One judge goes so far as to claim that courts are merely passive vehicles for applying the intellectual authority of the law and possess no coercive powers of their own. In contrast, some critics maintain that whatever authority judicial pronouncements have is exclusively institutional. Some of these critics go further, claiming that intellectual authority does not really exist—i.e., it reduces to institutional authority. But it can be countered that these claims break down when a sufficiently broad historical perspective is taken: Not all arguments accepted by institutions withstand the test of time, and some well-reasoned arguments never receive institutional imprimatur. The reasonable argument that goes unrecognized in its own time because it challenges institutional beliefs is common in intellectual history; intellectual authority and institutional consensus are not the same thing. But, the critics might respond, intellectual authority is only recognized as such because of institutional consensus. For example, if a musicologist were to claim that an alleged musical genius who, after several decades, had not gained respect and recognition for his or her compositions is probably not a genius, the critics might say that basing a judgment on a unit of time— "several decades" —is an institutional rather than an intellectual construct. What, the critics might ask, makes a particular number of decades reasonable evidence by which to judge genius? The answer, of course, is nothing, except for the fact that such institutional procedures have proved useful to musicologists in making such distinctions in the past. The analogous legal concept is the doctrine of precedent, i.e., a judge's merely deciding a case a certain way becoming a basis for deciding later cases the same way—a pure example of institutional authority. But the critics miss the crucial distinction that when a judicial decision is badly reasoned, or simply no longer applies in the face of evolving social standards or practices, the notion of intellectual authority is introduced: judges reconsider, revise, or in some cases throw out the decision. The conflict between intellectual and institutional authority in legal systems is thus played out in the reconsideration of decisions, leading one to draw the conclusion that legal systems contain a significant degree of intellectual authority even if the thrust of their power is predominantly institutional.

200210_3-RC_2_11

Which one of the following, if true, most challenges the author's contention that legal systems contain a significant degree of intellectual authority?

Intellectual authority is defined as the authority of arguments that prevail by virtue of good reasoning and do not depend on coercion or convention. A contrasting notion, institutional authority, refers to the power of social institutions to enforce acceptance of arguments that may or may not possess intellectual authority. The authority wielded by legal systems is especially interesting because such systems are institutions that nonetheless aspire to a purely intellectual authority. One judge goes so far as to claim that courts are merely passive vehicles for applying the intellectual authority of the law and possess no coercive powers of their own. In contrast, some critics maintain that whatever authority judicial pronouncements have is exclusively institutional. Some of these critics go further, claiming that intellectual authority does not really exist—i.e., it reduces to institutional authority. But it can be countered that these claims break down when a sufficiently broad historical perspective is taken: Not all arguments accepted by institutions withstand the test of time, and some well-reasoned arguments never receive institutional imprimatur. The reasonable argument that goes unrecognized in its own time because it challenges institutional beliefs is common in intellectual history; intellectual authority and institutional consensus are not the same thing. But, the critics might respond, intellectual authority is only recognized as such because of institutional consensus. For example, if a musicologist were to claim that an alleged musical genius who, after several decades, had not gained respect and recognition for his or her compositions is probably not a genius, the critics might say that basing a judgment on a unit of time— "several decades" —is an institutional rather than an intellectual construct. What, the critics might ask, makes a particular number of decades reasonable evidence by which to judge genius? The answer, of course, is nothing, except for the fact that such institutional procedures have proved useful to musicologists in making such distinctions in the past. The analogous legal concept is the doctrine of precedent, i.e., a judge's merely deciding a case a certain way becoming a basis for deciding later cases the same way—a pure example of institutional authority. But the critics miss the crucial distinction that when a judicial decision is badly reasoned, or simply no longer applies in the face of evolving social standards or practices, the notion of intellectual authority is introduced: judges reconsider, revise, or in some cases throw out the decision. The conflict between intellectual and institutional authority in legal systems is thus played out in the reconsideration of decisions, leading one to draw the conclusion that legal systems contain a significant degree of intellectual authority even if the thrust of their power is predominantly institutional.

200210_3-RC_2_12

Given the information in the passage, the author is LEAST likely to believe which one of the following?

Intellectual authority is defined as the authority of arguments that prevail by virtue of good reasoning and do not depend on coercion or convention. A contrasting notion, institutional authority, refers to the power of social institutions to enforce acceptance of arguments that may or may not possess intellectual authority. The authority wielded by legal systems is especially interesting because such systems are institutions that nonetheless aspire to a purely intellectual authority. One judge goes so far as to claim that courts are merely passive vehicles for applying the intellectual authority of the law and possess no coercive powers of their own. In contrast, some critics maintain that whatever authority judicial pronouncements have is exclusively institutional. Some of these critics go further, claiming that intellectual authority does not really exist—i.e., it reduces to institutional authority. But it can be countered that these claims break down when a sufficiently broad historical perspective is taken: Not all arguments accepted by institutions withstand the test of time, and some well-reasoned arguments never receive institutional imprimatur. The reasonable argument that goes unrecognized in its own time because it challenges institutional beliefs is common in intellectual history; intellectual authority and institutional consensus are not the same thing. But, the critics might respond, intellectual authority is only recognized as such because of institutional consensus. For example, if a musicologist were to claim that an alleged musical genius who, after several decades, had not gained respect and recognition for his or her compositions is probably not a genius, the critics might say that basing a judgment on a unit of time— "several decades" —is an institutional rather than an intellectual construct. What, the critics might ask, makes a particular number of decades reasonable evidence by which to judge genius? The answer, of course, is nothing, except for the fact that such institutional procedures have proved useful to musicologists in making such distinctions in the past. The analogous legal concept is the doctrine of precedent, i.e., a judge's merely deciding a case a certain way becoming a basis for deciding later cases the same way—a pure example of institutional authority. But the critics miss the crucial distinction that when a judicial decision is badly reasoned, or simply no longer applies in the face of evolving social standards or practices, the notion of intellectual authority is introduced: judges reconsider, revise, or in some cases throw out the decision. The conflict between intellectual and institutional authority in legal systems is thus played out in the reconsideration of decisions, leading one to draw the conclusion that legal systems contain a significant degree of intellectual authority even if the thrust of their power is predominantly institutional.

200210_3-RC_2_13

The author discusses the example from musicology primarily in order to

Intellectual authority is defined as the authority of arguments that prevail by virtue of good reasoning and do not depend on coercion or convention. A contrasting notion, institutional authority, refers to the power of social institutions to enforce acceptance of arguments that may or may not possess intellectual authority. The authority wielded by legal systems is especially interesting because such systems are institutions that nonetheless aspire to a purely intellectual authority. One judge goes so far as to claim that courts are merely passive vehicles for applying the intellectual authority of the law and possess no coercive powers of their own. In contrast, some critics maintain that whatever authority judicial pronouncements have is exclusively institutional. Some of these critics go further, claiming that intellectual authority does not really exist—i.e., it reduces to institutional authority. But it can be countered that these claims break down when a sufficiently broad historical perspective is taken: Not all arguments accepted by institutions withstand the test of time, and some well-reasoned arguments never receive institutional imprimatur. The reasonable argument that goes unrecognized in its own time because it challenges institutional beliefs is common in intellectual history; intellectual authority and institutional consensus are not the same thing. But, the critics might respond, intellectual authority is only recognized as such because of institutional consensus. For example, if a musicologist were to claim that an alleged musical genius who, after several decades, had not gained respect and recognition for his or her compositions is probably not a genius, the critics might say that basing a judgment on a unit of time— "several decades" —is an institutional rather than an intellectual construct. What, the critics might ask, makes a particular number of decades reasonable evidence by which to judge genius? The answer, of course, is nothing, except for the fact that such institutional procedures have proved useful to musicologists in making such distinctions in the past. The analogous legal concept is the doctrine of precedent, i.e., a judge's merely deciding a case a certain way becoming a basis for deciding later cases the same way—a pure example of institutional authority. But the critics miss the crucial distinction that when a judicial decision is badly reasoned, or simply no longer applies in the face of evolving social standards or practices, the notion of intellectual authority is introduced: judges reconsider, revise, or in some cases throw out the decision. The conflict between intellectual and institutional authority in legal systems is thus played out in the reconsideration of decisions, leading one to draw the conclusion that legal systems contain a significant degree of intellectual authority even if the thrust of their power is predominantly institutional.

200210_3-RC_2_14

Based on the passage, the author would be most likely to hold which one of the following views about the doctrine of precedent?

In explaining the foundations of the discipline known as historical sociology—the examination of history using the methods of sociology—historical sociologist Philip Abrams argues that, while people are made by society as much as society is made by people, sociologists' approach to the subject is usually to focus on only one of these forms of influence to the exclusion of the other. Abrams insists on the necessity for sociologists to move beyond these one-sided approaches to understand society as an entity constructed by individuals who are at the same time constructed by their society. Abrams refers to this continuous process as "structuring." Abrams also sees history as the result of structuring. People, both individually and as members of collectives, make history. But our making of history is itself formed and informed not only by the historical conditions we inherit from the past, but also by the prior formation of our own identities and capacities, which are shaped by what Abrams calls "contingencies" —social phenomena over which we have varying degrees of control. Contingencies include such things as the social conditions under which we come of age, the condition of our household's economy, the ideologies available to help us make sense of our situation, and accidental circumstances. The ways in which contingencies affect our individual or group identities create a structure of forces within which we are able to act, and that partially determines the sorts of actions we are able to perform. In Abrams's analysis, historical structuring, like social structuring, is manifold and unremitting. To understand it, historical sociologists must extract from it certain significant episodes, or events, that their methodology can then analyze and interpret. According to Abrams, these events are points at which action and contingency meet, points that represent a cross section of the specific social and individual forces in play at a given time. At such moments, individuals stand forth as agents of history not simply because they possess a unique ability to act, but also because in them we see the force of the specific social conditions that allowed their actions to come forth. Individuals can "make their mark" on history, yet in individuals one also finds the convergence of wider social forces. In order to capture the various facets of this mutual interaction, Abrams recommends a fourfold structure to which he believes the investigations of historical sociologists should conform: first, description of the event itself; second, discussion of the social context that helped bring the event about and gave it significance; third, summary of the life history of the individual agent in the event; and fourth, analysis of the consequences of the event both for history and for the individual.

200210_3-RC_3_15

Which one of the following most accurately states the central idea of the passage?

In explaining the foundations of the discipline known as historical sociology—the examination of history using the methods of sociology—historical sociologist Philip Abrams argues that, while people are made by society as much as society is made by people, sociologists' approach to the subject is usually to focus on only one of these forms of influence to the exclusion of the other. Abrams insists on the necessity for sociologists to move beyond these one-sided approaches to understand society as an entity constructed by individuals who are at the same time constructed by their society. Abrams refers to this continuous process as "structuring." Abrams also sees history as the result of structuring. People, both individually and as members of collectives, make history. But our making of history is itself formed and informed not only by the historical conditions we inherit from the past, but also by the prior formation of our own identities and capacities, which are shaped by what Abrams calls "contingencies" —social phenomena over which we have varying degrees of control. Contingencies include such things as the social conditions under which we come of age, the condition of our household's economy, the ideologies available to help us make sense of our situation, and accidental circumstances. The ways in which contingencies affect our individual or group identities create a structure of forces within which we are able to act, and that partially determines the sorts of actions we are able to perform. In Abrams's analysis, historical structuring, like social structuring, is manifold and unremitting. To understand it, historical sociologists must extract from it certain significant episodes, or events, that their methodology can then analyze and interpret. According to Abrams, these events are points at which action and contingency meet, points that represent a cross section of the specific social and individual forces in play at a given time. At such moments, individuals stand forth as agents of history not simply because they possess a unique ability to act, but also because in them we see the force of the specific social conditions that allowed their actions to come forth. Individuals can "make their mark" on history, yet in individuals one also finds the convergence of wider social forces. In order to capture the various facets of this mutual interaction, Abrams recommends a fourfold structure to which he believes the investigations of historical sociologists should conform: first, description of the event itself; second, discussion of the social context that helped bring the event about and gave it significance; third, summary of the life history of the individual agent in the event; and fourth, analysis of the consequences of the event both for history and for the individual.

200210_3-RC_3_16

Given the passage's argument, which one of the following sentences most logically completes the last paragraph?

In explaining the foundations of the discipline known as historical sociology—the examination of history using the methods of sociology—historical sociologist Philip Abrams argues that, while people are made by society as much as society is made by people, sociologists' approach to the subject is usually to focus on only one of these forms of influence to the exclusion of the other. Abrams insists on the necessity for sociologists to move beyond these one-sided approaches to understand society as an entity constructed by individuals who are at the same time constructed by their society. Abrams refers to this continuous process as "structuring." Abrams also sees history as the result of structuring. People, both individually and as members of collectives, make history. But our making of history is itself formed and informed not only by the historical conditions we inherit from the past, but also by the prior formation of our own identities and capacities, which are shaped by what Abrams calls "contingencies" —social phenomena over which we have varying degrees of control. Contingencies include such things as the social conditions under which we come of age, the condition of our household's economy, the ideologies available to help us make sense of our situation, and accidental circumstances. The ways in which contingencies affect our individual or group identities create a structure of forces within which we are able to act, and that partially determines the sorts of actions we are able to perform. In Abrams's analysis, historical structuring, like social structuring, is manifold and unremitting. To understand it, historical sociologists must extract from it certain significant episodes, or events, that their methodology can then analyze and interpret. According to Abrams, these events are points at which action and contingency meet, points that represent a cross section of the specific social and individual forces in play at a given time. At such moments, individuals stand forth as agents of history not simply because they possess a unique ability to act, but also because in them we see the force of the specific social conditions that allowed their actions to come forth. Individuals can "make their mark" on history, yet in individuals one also finds the convergence of wider social forces. In order to capture the various facets of this mutual interaction, Abrams recommends a fourfold structure to which he believes the investigations of historical sociologists should conform: first, description of the event itself; second, discussion of the social context that helped bring the event about and gave it significance; third, summary of the life history of the individual agent in the event; and fourth, analysis of the consequences of the event both for history and for the individual.

200210_3-RC_3_17

The passage states that a contingency could be each of the following EXCEPT:

In explaining the foundations of the discipline known as historical sociology—the examination of history using the methods of sociology—historical sociologist Philip Abrams argues that, while people are made by society as much as society is made by people, sociologists' approach to the subject is usually to focus on only one of these forms of influence to the exclusion of the other. Abrams insists on the necessity for sociologists to move beyond these one-sided approaches to understand society as an entity constructed by individuals who are at the same time constructed by their society. Abrams refers to this continuous process as "structuring." Abrams also sees history as the result of structuring. People, both individually and as members of collectives, make history. But our making of history is itself formed and informed not only by the historical conditions we inherit from the past, but also by the prior formation of our own identities and capacities, which are shaped by what Abrams calls "contingencies" —social phenomena over which we have varying degrees of control. Contingencies include such things as the social conditions under which we come of age, the condition of our household's economy, the ideologies available to help us make sense of our situation, and accidental circumstances. The ways in which contingencies affect our individual or group identities create a structure of forces within which we are able to act, and that partially determines the sorts of actions we are able to perform. In Abrams's analysis, historical structuring, like social structuring, is manifold and unremitting. To understand it, historical sociologists must extract from it certain significant episodes, or events, that their methodology can then analyze and interpret. According to Abrams, these events are points at which action and contingency meet, points that represent a cross section of the specific social and individual forces in play at a given time. At such moments, individuals stand forth as agents of history not simply because they possess a unique ability to act, but also because in them we see the force of the specific social conditions that allowed their actions to come forth. Individuals can "make their mark" on history, yet in individuals one also finds the convergence of wider social forces. In order to capture the various facets of this mutual interaction, Abrams recommends a fourfold structure to which he believes the investigations of historical sociologists should conform: first, description of the event itself; second, discussion of the social context that helped bring the event about and gave it significance; third, summary of the life history of the individual agent in the event; and fourth, analysis of the consequences of the event both for history and for the individual.

200210_3-RC_3_18

Which one of the following is most analogous to the ideal work of a historical sociologist as outlined by Abrams?

In explaining the foundations of the discipline known as historical sociology—the examination of history using the methods of sociology—historical sociologist Philip Abrams argues that, while people are made by society as much as society is made by people, sociologists' approach to the subject is usually to focus on only one of these forms of influence to the exclusion of the other. Abrams insists on the necessity for sociologists to move beyond these one-sided approaches to understand society as an entity constructed by individuals who are at the same time constructed by their society. Abrams refers to this continuous process as "structuring." Abrams also sees history as the result of structuring. People, both individually and as members of collectives, make history. But our making of history is itself formed and informed not only by the historical conditions we inherit from the past, but also by the prior formation of our own identities and capacities, which are shaped by what Abrams calls "contingencies" —social phenomena over which we have varying degrees of control. Contingencies include such things as the social conditions under which we come of age, the condition of our household's economy, the ideologies available to help us make sense of our situation, and accidental circumstances. The ways in which contingencies affect our individual or group identities create a structure of forces within which we are able to act, and that partially determines the sorts of actions we are able to perform. In Abrams's analysis, historical structuring, like social structuring, is manifold and unremitting. To understand it, historical sociologists must extract from it certain significant episodes, or events, that their methodology can then analyze and interpret. According to Abrams, these events are points at which action and contingency meet, points that represent a cross section of the specific social and individual forces in play at a given time. At such moments, individuals stand forth as agents of history not simply because they possess a unique ability to act, but also because in them we see the force of the specific social conditions that allowed their actions to come forth. Individuals can "make their mark" on history, yet in individuals one also finds the convergence of wider social forces. In order to capture the various facets of this mutual interaction, Abrams recommends a fourfold structure to which he believes the investigations of historical sociologists should conform: first, description of the event itself; second, discussion of the social context that helped bring the event about and gave it significance; third, summary of the life history of the individual agent in the event; and fourth, analysis of the consequences of the event both for history and for the individual.

200210_3-RC_3_19

The primary function of the first paragraph of the passage is to

In explaining the foundations of the discipline known as historical sociology—the examination of history using the methods of sociology—historical sociologist Philip Abrams argues that, while people are made by society as much as society is made by people, sociologists' approach to the subject is usually to focus on only one of these forms of influence to the exclusion of the other. Abrams insists on the necessity for sociologists to move beyond these one-sided approaches to understand society as an entity constructed by individuals who are at the same time constructed by their society. Abrams refers to this continuous process as "structuring." Abrams also sees history as the result of structuring. People, both individually and as members of collectives, make history. But our making of history is itself formed and informed not only by the historical conditions we inherit from the past, but also by the prior formation of our own identities and capacities, which are shaped by what Abrams calls "contingencies" —social phenomena over which we have varying degrees of control. Contingencies include such things as the social conditions under which we come of age, the condition of our household's economy, the ideologies available to help us make sense of our situation, and accidental circumstances. The ways in which contingencies affect our individual or group identities create a structure of forces within which we are able to act, and that partially determines the sorts of actions we are able to perform. In Abrams's analysis, historical structuring, like social structuring, is manifold and unremitting. To understand it, historical sociologists must extract from it certain significant episodes, or events, that their methodology can then analyze and interpret. According to Abrams, these events are points at which action and contingency meet, points that represent a cross section of the specific social and individual forces in play at a given time. At such moments, individuals stand forth as agents of history not simply because they possess a unique ability to act, but also because in them we see the force of the specific social conditions that allowed their actions to come forth. Individuals can "make their mark" on history, yet in individuals one also finds the convergence of wider social forces. In order to capture the various facets of this mutual interaction, Abrams recommends a fourfold structure to which he believes the investigations of historical sociologists should conform: first, description of the event itself; second, discussion of the social context that helped bring the event about and gave it significance; third, summary of the life history of the individual agent in the event; and fourth, analysis of the consequences of the event both for history and for the individual.

200210_3-RC_3_20

Based on the passage, which one of the following is the LEAST illustrative example of the effect of a contingency upon an individual?

One of the greatest challenges facing medical students today, apart from absorbing volumes of technical information and learning habits of scientific thought, is that of remaining empathetic to the needs of patients in the face of all this rigorous training. Requiring students to immerse themselves completely in medical coursework risks disconnecting them from the personal and ethical aspects of doctoring, and such strictly scientific thinking is insufficient for grappling with modern ethical dilemmas. For these reasons, aspiring physicians need to develop new ways of thinking about and interacting with patients. Training in ethics that takes narrative literature as its primary subject is one method of accomplishing this. Although training in ethics is currently provided by medical schools, this training relies heavily on an abstract, philosophical view of ethics. Although the conceptual clarity provided by a traditional ethics course can be valuable, theorizing about ethics contributes little to the understanding of everyday human experience or to preparing medical students for the multifarious ethical dilemmas they will face as physicians. A true foundation in ethics must be predicated on an understanding of human behavior that reflects a wide array of relationships and readily adapts to various perspectives, for this is what is required to develop empathy. Ethics courses drawing on narrative literature can better help students prepare for ethical dilemmas precisely because such literature attaches its readers so forcefully to the concrete and varied world of human events. The act of reading narrative literature is uniquely suited to the development of what might be called flexible ethical thinking. To grasp the development of characters, to tangle with heightening moral crises, and to engage oneself with the story not as one's own but nevertheless as something recognizable and worthy of attention, readers must use their moral imagination. Giving oneself over to the ethical conflicts in a story requires the abandonment of strictly absolute, inviolate sets of moral principles. Reading literature also demands that the reader adopt another person's point of view—that of the narrator or a character in a story— and thus requires the ability to depart from one's personal ethical stance and examine moral issues from new perspectives. It does not follow that readers, including medical professionals, must relinquish all moral principles, as is the case with situational ethics, in which decisions about ethical choices are made on the basis of intuition and are entirely relative to the circumstances in which they arise. Such an extremely relativistic stance would have as little benefit for the patient or physician as would a dogmatically absolutist one. Fortunately, the incorporation of narrative literature into the study of ethics, while serving as a corrective to the latter stance, need not lead to the former. But it can give us something that is lacking in the traditional philosophical study of ethics—namely, a deeper understanding of human nature that can serve as a foundation for ethical reasoning and allow greater flexibility in the application of moral principles.

200210_3-RC_4_21

Which one of the following most accurately states the main point of the passage?

One of the greatest challenges facing medical students today, apart from absorbing volumes of technical information and learning habits of scientific thought, is that of remaining empathetic to the needs of patients in the face of all this rigorous training. Requiring students to immerse themselves completely in medical coursework risks disconnecting them from the personal and ethical aspects of doctoring, and such strictly scientific thinking is insufficient for grappling with modern ethical dilemmas. For these reasons, aspiring physicians need to develop new ways of thinking about and interacting with patients. Training in ethics that takes narrative literature as its primary subject is one method of accomplishing this. Although training in ethics is currently provided by medical schools, this training relies heavily on an abstract, philosophical view of ethics. Although the conceptual clarity provided by a traditional ethics course can be valuable, theorizing about ethics contributes little to the understanding of everyday human experience or to preparing medical students for the multifarious ethical dilemmas they will face as physicians. A true foundation in ethics must be predicated on an understanding of human behavior that reflects a wide array of relationships and readily adapts to various perspectives, for this is what is required to develop empathy. Ethics courses drawing on narrative literature can better help students prepare for ethical dilemmas precisely because such literature attaches its readers so forcefully to the concrete and varied world of human events. The act of reading narrative literature is uniquely suited to the development of what might be called flexible ethical thinking. To grasp the development of characters, to tangle with heightening moral crises, and to engage oneself with the story not as one's own but nevertheless as something recognizable and worthy of attention, readers must use their moral imagination. Giving oneself over to the ethical conflicts in a story requires the abandonment of strictly absolute, inviolate sets of moral principles. Reading literature also demands that the reader adopt another person's point of view—that of the narrator or a character in a story— and thus requires the ability to depart from one's personal ethical stance and examine moral issues from new perspectives. It does not follow that readers, including medical professionals, must relinquish all moral principles, as is the case with situational ethics, in which decisions about ethical choices are made on the basis of intuition and are entirely relative to the circumstances in which they arise. Such an extremely relativistic stance would have as little benefit for the patient or physician as would a dogmatically absolutist one. Fortunately, the incorporation of narrative literature into the study of ethics, while serving as a corrective to the latter stance, need not lead to the former. But it can give us something that is lacking in the traditional philosophical study of ethics—namely, a deeper understanding of human nature that can serve as a foundation for ethical reasoning and allow greater flexibility in the application of moral principles.

200210_3-RC_4_22

Which one of the following most accurately represents the author's use of the term "moral imagination" in line 38?

One of the greatest challenges facing medical students today, apart from absorbing volumes of technical information and learning habits of scientific thought, is that of remaining empathetic to the needs of patients in the face of all this rigorous training. Requiring students to immerse themselves completely in medical coursework risks disconnecting them from the personal and ethical aspects of doctoring, and such strictly scientific thinking is insufficient for grappling with modern ethical dilemmas. For these reasons, aspiring physicians need to develop new ways of thinking about and interacting with patients. Training in ethics that takes narrative literature as its primary subject is one method of accomplishing this. Although training in ethics is currently provided by medical schools, this training relies heavily on an abstract, philosophical view of ethics. Although the conceptual clarity provided by a traditional ethics course can be valuable, theorizing about ethics contributes little to the understanding of everyday human experience or to preparing medical students for the multifarious ethical dilemmas they will face as physicians. A true foundation in ethics must be predicated on an understanding of human behavior that reflects a wide array of relationships and readily adapts to various perspectives, for this is what is required to develop empathy. Ethics courses drawing on narrative literature can better help students prepare for ethical dilemmas precisely because such literature attaches its readers so forcefully to the concrete and varied world of human events. The act of reading narrative literature is uniquely suited to the development of what might be called flexible ethical thinking. To grasp the development of characters, to tangle with heightening moral crises, and to engage oneself with the story not as one's own but nevertheless as something recognizable and worthy of attention, readers must use their moral imagination. Giving oneself over to the ethical conflicts in a story requires the abandonment of strictly absolute, inviolate sets of moral principles. Reading literature also demands that the reader adopt another person's point of view—that of the narrator or a character in a story— and thus requires the ability to depart from one's personal ethical stance and examine moral issues from new perspectives. It does not follow that readers, including medical professionals, must relinquish all moral principles, as is the case with situational ethics, in which decisions about ethical choices are made on the basis of intuition and are entirely relative to the circumstances in which they arise. Such an extremely relativistic stance would have as little benefit for the patient or physician as would a dogmatically absolutist one. Fortunately, the incorporation of narrative literature into the study of ethics, while serving as a corrective to the latter stance, need not lead to the former. But it can give us something that is lacking in the traditional philosophical study of ethics—namely, a deeper understanding of human nature that can serve as a foundation for ethical reasoning and allow greater flexibility in the application of moral principles.

200210_3-RC_4_23

It can be inferred from the passage that the author would most likely agree with which one of the following statements?

One of the greatest challenges facing medical students today, apart from absorbing volumes of technical information and learning habits of scientific thought, is that of remaining empathetic to the needs of patients in the face of all this rigorous training. Requiring students to immerse themselves completely in medical coursework risks disconnecting them from the personal and ethical aspects of doctoring, and such strictly scientific thinking is insufficient for grappling with modern ethical dilemmas. For these reasons, aspiring physicians need to develop new ways of thinking about and interacting with patients. Training in ethics that takes narrative literature as its primary subject is one method of accomplishing this. Although training in ethics is currently provided by medical schools, this training relies heavily on an abstract, philosophical view of ethics. Although the conceptual clarity provided by a traditional ethics course can be valuable, theorizing about ethics contributes little to the understanding of everyday human experience or to preparing medical students for the multifarious ethical dilemmas they will face as physicians. A true foundation in ethics must be predicated on an understanding of human behavior that reflects a wide array of relationships and readily adapts to various perspectives, for this is what is required to develop empathy. Ethics courses drawing on narrative literature can better help students prepare for ethical dilemmas precisely because such literature attaches its readers so forcefully to the concrete and varied world of human events. The act of reading narrative literature is uniquely suited to the development of what might be called flexible ethical thinking. To grasp the development of characters, to tangle with heightening moral crises, and to engage oneself with the story not as one's own but nevertheless as something recognizable and worthy of attention, readers must use their moral imagination. Giving oneself over to the ethical conflicts in a story requires the abandonment of strictly absolute, inviolate sets of moral principles. Reading literature also demands that the reader adopt another person's point of view—that of the narrator or a character in a story— and thus requires the ability to depart from one's personal ethical stance and examine moral issues from new perspectives. It does not follow that readers, including medical professionals, must relinquish all moral principles, as is the case with situational ethics, in which decisions about ethical choices are made on the basis of intuition and are entirely relative to the circumstances in which they arise. Such an extremely relativistic stance would have as little benefit for the patient or physician as would a dogmatically absolutist one. Fortunately, the incorporation of narrative literature into the study of ethics, while serving as a corrective to the latter stance, need not lead to the former. But it can give us something that is lacking in the traditional philosophical study of ethics—namely, a deeper understanding of human nature that can serve as a foundation for ethical reasoning and allow greater flexibility in the application of moral principles.

200210_3-RC_4_24

Which one of the following is most likely the author's overall purpose in the passage?

One of the greatest challenges facing medical students today, apart from absorbing volumes of technical information and learning habits of scientific thought, is that of remaining empathetic to the needs of patients in the face of all this rigorous training. Requiring students to immerse themselves completely in medical coursework risks disconnecting them from the personal and ethical aspects of doctoring, and such strictly scientific thinking is insufficient for grappling with modern ethical dilemmas. For these reasons, aspiring physicians need to develop new ways of thinking about and interacting with patients. Training in ethics that takes narrative literature as its primary subject is one method of accomplishing this. Although training in ethics is currently provided by medical schools, this training relies heavily on an abstract, philosophical view of ethics. Although the conceptual clarity provided by a traditional ethics course can be valuable, theorizing about ethics contributes little to the understanding of everyday human experience or to preparing medical students for the multifarious ethical dilemmas they will face as physicians. A true foundation in ethics must be predicated on an understanding of human behavior that reflects a wide array of relationships and readily adapts to various perspectives, for this is what is required to develop empathy. Ethics courses drawing on narrative literature can better help students prepare for ethical dilemmas precisely because such literature attaches its readers so forcefully to the concrete and varied world of human events. The act of reading narrative literature is uniquely suited to the development of what might be called flexible ethical thinking. To grasp the development of characters, to tangle with heightening moral crises, and to engage oneself with the story not as one's own but nevertheless as something recognizable and worthy of attention, readers must use their moral imagination. Giving oneself over to the ethical conflicts in a story requires the abandonment of strictly absolute, inviolate sets of moral principles. Reading literature also demands that the reader adopt another person's point of view—that of the narrator or a character in a story— and thus requires the ability to depart from one's personal ethical stance and examine moral issues from new perspectives. It does not follow that readers, including medical professionals, must relinquish all moral principles, as is the case with situational ethics, in which decisions about ethical choices are made on the basis of intuition and are entirely relative to the circumstances in which they arise. Such an extremely relativistic stance would have as little benefit for the patient or physician as would a dogmatically absolutist one. Fortunately, the incorporation of narrative literature into the study of ethics, while serving as a corrective to the latter stance, need not lead to the former. But it can give us something that is lacking in the traditional philosophical study of ethics—namely, a deeper understanding of human nature that can serve as a foundation for ethical reasoning and allow greater flexibility in the application of moral principles.

200210_3-RC_4_25

The passage ascribes each of the following characteristics to the use of narrative literature in ethical education EXCEPT:

One of the greatest challenges facing medical students today, apart from absorbing volumes of technical information and learning habits of scientific thought, is that of remaining empathetic to the needs of patients in the face of all this rigorous training. Requiring students to immerse themselves completely in medical coursework risks disconnecting them from the personal and ethical aspects of doctoring, and such strictly scientific thinking is insufficient for grappling with modern ethical dilemmas. For these reasons, aspiring physicians need to develop new ways of thinking about and interacting with patients. Training in ethics that takes narrative literature as its primary subject is one method of accomplishing this. Although training in ethics is currently provided by medical schools, this training relies heavily on an abstract, philosophical view of ethics. Although the conceptual clarity provided by a traditional ethics course can be valuable, theorizing about ethics contributes little to the understanding of everyday human experience or to preparing medical students for the multifarious ethical dilemmas they will face as physicians. A true foundation in ethics must be predicated on an understanding of human behavior that reflects a wide array of relationships and readily adapts to various perspectives, for this is what is required to develop empathy. Ethics courses drawing on narrative literature can better help students prepare for ethical dilemmas precisely because such literature attaches its readers so forcefully to the concrete and varied world of human events. The act of reading narrative literature is uniquely suited to the development of what might be called flexible ethical thinking. To grasp the development of characters, to tangle with heightening moral crises, and to engage oneself with the story not as one's own but nevertheless as something recognizable and worthy of attention, readers must use their moral imagination. Giving oneself over to the ethical conflicts in a story requires the abandonment of strictly absolute, inviolate sets of moral principles. Reading literature also demands that the reader adopt another person's point of view—that of the narrator or a character in a story— and thus requires the ability to depart from one's personal ethical stance and examine moral issues from new perspectives. It does not follow that readers, including medical professionals, must relinquish all moral principles, as is the case with situational ethics, in which decisions about ethical choices are made on the basis of intuition and are entirely relative to the circumstances in which they arise. Such an extremely relativistic stance would have as little benefit for the patient or physician as would a dogmatically absolutist one. Fortunately, the incorporation of narrative literature into the study of ethics, while serving as a corrective to the latter stance, need not lead to the former. But it can give us something that is lacking in the traditional philosophical study of ethics—namely, a deeper understanding of human nature that can serve as a foundation for ethical reasoning and allow greater flexibility in the application of moral principles.

200210_3-RC_4_26

With regard to ethical dilemmas, the passage explicitly states each of the following EXCEPT:

One of the greatest challenges facing medical students today, apart from absorbing volumes of technical information and learning habits of scientific thought, is that of remaining empathetic to the needs of patients in the face of all this rigorous training. Requiring students to immerse themselves completely in medical coursework risks disconnecting them from the personal and ethical aspects of doctoring, and such strictly scientific thinking is insufficient for grappling with modern ethical dilemmas. For these reasons, aspiring physicians need to develop new ways of thinking about and interacting with patients. Training in ethics that takes narrative literature as its primary subject is one method of accomplishing this. Although training in ethics is currently provided by medical schools, this training relies heavily on an abstract, philosophical view of ethics. Although the conceptual clarity provided by a traditional ethics course can be valuable, theorizing about ethics contributes little to the understanding of everyday human experience or to preparing medical students for the multifarious ethical dilemmas they will face as physicians. A true foundation in ethics must be predicated on an understanding of human behavior that reflects a wide array of relationships and readily adapts to various perspectives, for this is what is required to develop empathy. Ethics courses drawing on narrative literature can better help students prepare for ethical dilemmas precisely because such literature attaches its readers so forcefully to the concrete and varied world of human events. The act of reading narrative literature is uniquely suited to the development of what might be called flexible ethical thinking. To grasp the development of characters, to tangle with heightening moral crises, and to engage oneself with the story not as one's own but nevertheless as something recognizable and worthy of attention, readers must use their moral imagination. Giving oneself over to the ethical conflicts in a story requires the abandonment of strictly absolute, inviolate sets of moral principles. Reading literature also demands that the reader adopt another person's point of view—that of the narrator or a character in a story— and thus requires the ability to depart from one's personal ethical stance and examine moral issues from new perspectives. It does not follow that readers, including medical professionals, must relinquish all moral principles, as is the case with situational ethics, in which decisions about ethical choices are made on the basis of intuition and are entirely relative to the circumstances in which they arise. Such an extremely relativistic stance would have as little benefit for the patient or physician as would a dogmatically absolutist one. Fortunately, the incorporation of narrative literature into the study of ethics, while serving as a corrective to the latter stance, need not lead to the former. But it can give us something that is lacking in the traditional philosophical study of ethics—namely, a deeper understanding of human nature that can serve as a foundation for ethical reasoning and allow greater flexibility in the application of moral principles.

200210_3-RC_4_27

The author's attitude regarding the traditional method of teaching ethics in medical school can most accurately be described as

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_1

Which one of the following most accurately expresses the main point of the passage?

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_2

The author mentions Rivera's use of "pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco" (lines 36–37) primarily in order to provide an example of Rivera's

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_3

Which one of the following aspects of muralist painting does the author appear to value most highly?

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_4

Based on the passage, with which one of the following statements about art would the muralists be most likely to agree?

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_5

According to the passage, the Mexican government elected in 1920 took which one of the following approaches to art following the Mexican Revolution?

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_6

Which one of the following, if true, most supports the author's claim about the relationship between muralism and the Mexican Revolution (lines 24–27)?

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_7

Which one of the following does the author explicitly identify as a characteristic of Mexican mural art?

The contemporary Mexican artistic movement known as muralism, a movement of public art that began with images painted on walls in an effort to represent Mexican national culture, is closely linked ideologically with its main sponsor, the new Mexican government elected in 1920 following the Mexican Revolution. This government promoted an ambitious cultural program, and the young revolutionary state called on artists to display Mexico's richness and possibility. But the theoretical foundation of the movement was formulated by the artists themselves. The major figures in the muralist movement, David Alfaro Siqueiros, Diego Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco, all based their work on a common premise: that art should incorporate images and familiar ideas as it commented upon the historic period in which it was created. In the process, they assimilated into their work the customs, myths, geography, and history of the local communities that constitute the basis of Mexican national culture. But while many muralist works express populist or nationalist ideas, it is a mistake to attempt to reduce Mexican mural painting to formulaic, official government art. It is more than merely the result of the changes in political and social awareness that the Mexican Revolution represented; it also reflected important innovations in the art world. In creating a wide panorama of Mexico's history on the walls of public buildings throughout the country, muralists often used a realist style. But awareness of these innovations enabled them to be freer in expression than were more traditional practitioners of this style. Moreover, while they shared a common interest in rediscovering their Mexican national identity, they developed their own distinct styles. Rivera, for example, incorporated elements from pre-Columbian sculpture and the Italian Renaissance fresco into his murals and used a strange combination of mechanical shapes to depict the faces and bodies of people. Orozco, on the other hand, showed a more expressionist approach, with loose brushwork and an openly emotional treatment of form. He relied on a strong diagonal line to give a sense of heightened movement and drama to his work. Siqueiros developed in a somewhat similar direction as Orozco, but incorporated asymmetric compositions, a high degree of action, and brilliant color. This stylistic experimentation can be seen as resulting from the demands of a new medium. In stretching their concepts from small easel paintings with a centralized subject to vast compositions with mural dimensions, muralists learned to think big and to respect the sweeping gesture of the arm—the brush stroke required to achieve the desired bold effect of mural art. Furthermore, because they were painting murals, they thought in terms of a continuum; their works were designed to be viewable from many different vantage points, to have an equally strong impact in all parts, and to continue to be viewable as people moved across in front of them.

200212_3-RC_1_8

The primary purpose of the second paragraph is to

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_9

Which one of the following most accurately states the main idea of the passage?

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_10

Based on the passage, which one of the following elements of "Hansel and Gretel" would most likely be de-emphasized in Bettelheim's interpretation of the tale?

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_11

Which one of the following is the most accurate description of the author's attitude toward Bettelheim's view of fairy tales?

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_12

The author of the passage would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements?

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_13

Which one of the following principles most likely underlies the author's characterization of literary interpretation?

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_14

According to the author, recent psychoanalytic literature suggests that

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_15

It can be inferred from the passage that Bettelheim believes that children are

Fairy tales address themselves to two communities, each with its own interests and each in periodic conflict with the other: parents and children. Nearly every study of fairy tales has taken the perspective of the parent, constructing the meaning of the tales by using the reading strategies of an adult bent on identifying universally valid tenets of moral instruction for children. For example, the plot of "Hansel and Gretel" is set in motion by hard-hearted parents who abandon their children in the woods, but for psychologist Bruno Bettelheim the tale is really about children who learn to give up their unhealthy dependency on their parents. According to Bettelheim, this story—in which the children ultimately overpower a witch who has taken them prisoner for the crime of attempting to eat the witch's gingerbread house—forces its young audience to recognize the dangers of unrestrained greed. As dependent children, Bettelheim argues, Hansel and Gretel had been a burden to their parents, but on their return home with the witch's jewels, they become the family's support. Thus, says Bettelheim, does the story train its young listeners to become "mature children." There are two ways of interpreting a story: one is a "superficial" reading that focuses on the tale's manifest content, and the other is a "deeper" reading that looks for latent meanings. Many adults who read fairy tales are drawn to this second kind of interpretation in order to avoid facing the unpleasant truths that can emerge from the tales when adults—even parents—are portrayed as capable of acting out of selfish motives themselves. What makes fairy tales attractive to Bettelheim and other psychologists is that they can be used as scenarios that position the child as a transgressor whose deserved punishment provides a lesson for unruly children. Stories that run counter to such orthodoxies about child-rearing are, to a large extent, suppressed by Bettelheim or "rewritten" through reinterpretation. Once we examine his interpretations closely, we see that his readings produce meanings that are very different from those constructed by readers with different cultural assumptions and expectations, who, unlike Bettelheim, do not find inflexible tenets of moral instruction in the tales. Bettelheim interprets all fairy tales as driven by children's fantasies of desire and revenge, and in doing so suppresses the true nature of parental behavior ranging from abuse to indulgence. Fortunately, these characterizations of selfish children and innocent adults have been discredited to some extent by recent psychoanalytic literature. The need to deny adult evil has been a pervasive feature of our society, leading us to position children not only as the sole agents of evil but also as the objects of unending moral instruction, hence the idea that a literature targeted for them must stand in the service of pragmatic instrumentality rather than foster an unproductive form of playful pleasure.

200212_3-RC_2_16

Which one of the following statements is least compatible with Bettelheim's views, as those views are described in the passage?

With the approach of the twentieth century, the classical wave theory of radiation—a widely accepted theory in physics—began to encounter obstacles. This theory held that all electromagnetic radiation—the entire spectrum from gamma and X rays to radio frequencies, including heat and light—exists in the form of waves. One fundamental assumption of wave theory was that as the length of a wave of radiation shortens, its energy increases smoothly—like a volume dial on a radio that adjusts smoothly to any setting— and that any conceivable energy value could thus occur in nature. The major challenge to wave theory was the behavior of thermal radiation, the radiation emitted by an object due to the object's temperature, commonly called "blackbody" radiation because experiments aimed at measuring it require objects, such as black velvet or soot, with little or no reflective capability. Physicists can monitor the radiation coming from a blackbody object and be confident that they are observing its thermal radiation and not simply reflected radiation that has originated elsewhere. Employing the principles of wave theory, physicists originally predicted that blackbody objects radiated much more at short wavelengths, such as ultraviolet, than at long wavelengths. However, physicists using advanced experimental techniques near the turn of the century did not find the predicted amount of radiation at short wavelengths—in fact, they found almost none, a result that became known among wave theorists as the "ultraviolet catastrophe." Max Planck, a classical physicist who had made important contributions to wave theory, developed a hypothesis about atomic processes taking place in a blackbody object that broke with wave theory and accounted for the observed patterns of blackbody radiation. Planck discarded the assumption of radiation's smooth energy continuum and took the then bizarre position that these atomic processes could only involve discrete energies that jump between certain units of value—like a volume dial that "clicks" between incremental settings—and he thereby obtained numbers that perfectly fit the earlier experimental result. This directly opposed wave theory's picture of atomic processes, and the physics community was at first quite critical of Planck's hypothesis, in part because he presented it without physical explanation. Soon thereafter, however, Albert Einstein and other physicists provided theoretical justification for Planck's hypothesis. They found that upon being hit with part of the radiation spectrum, metal surfaces give off energy at values that are discontinuous. Further, they noted a threshold along the spectrum beyond which no energy is emitted by the metal. Einstein theorized, and later found evidence to confirm, that radiation is composed of particles, now called photons, which can be emitted only in discrete units and at certain wavelengths, in accordance with Planck's speculations. So in just a few years, what was considered a catastrophe generated a new vision in physics that led to theories still in place today.

200212_3-RC_3_17

Which one of the following most accurately states the main point of the passage?

With the approach of the twentieth century, the classical wave theory of radiation—a widely accepted theory in physics—began to encounter obstacles. This theory held that all electromagnetic radiation—the entire spectrum from gamma and X rays to radio frequencies, including heat and light—exists in the form of waves. One fundamental assumption of wave theory was that as the length of a wave of radiation shortens, its energy increases smoothly—like a volume dial on a radio that adjusts smoothly to any setting— and that any conceivable energy value could thus occur in nature. The major challenge to wave theory was the behavior of thermal radiation, the radiation emitted by an object due to the object's temperature, commonly called "blackbody" radiation because experiments aimed at measuring it require objects, such as black velvet or soot, with little or no reflective capability. Physicists can monitor the radiation coming from a blackbody object and be confident that they are observing its thermal radiation and not simply reflected radiation that has originated elsewhere. Employing the principles of wave theory, physicists originally predicted that blackbody objects radiated much more at short wavelengths, such as ultraviolet, than at long wavelengths. However, physicists using advanced experimental techniques near the turn of the century did not find the predicted amount of radiation at short wavelengths—in fact, they found almost none, a result that became known among wave theorists as the "ultraviolet catastrophe." Max Planck, a classical physicist who had made important contributions to wave theory, developed a hypothesis about atomic processes taking place in a blackbody object that broke with wave theory and accounted for the observed patterns of blackbody radiation. Planck discarded the assumption of radiation's smooth energy continuum and took the then bizarre position that these atomic processes could only involve discrete energies that jump between certain units of value—like a volume dial that "clicks" between incremental settings—and he thereby obtained numbers that perfectly fit the earlier experimental result. This directly opposed wave theory's picture of atomic processes, and the physics community was at first quite critical of Planck's hypothesis, in part because he presented it without physical explanation. Soon thereafter, however, Albert Einstein and other physicists provided theoretical justification for Planck's hypothesis. They found that upon being hit with part of the radiation spectrum, metal surfaces give off energy at values that are discontinuous. Further, they noted a threshold along the spectrum beyond which no energy is emitted by the metal. Einstein theorized, and later found evidence to confirm, that radiation is composed of particles, now called photons, which can be emitted only in discrete units and at certain wavelengths, in accordance with Planck's speculations. So in just a few years, what was considered a catastrophe generated a new vision in physics that led to theories still in place today.

200212_3-RC_3_18

Which one of the following does the author use to illustrate the difference between continuous energies and discrete energies?

With the approach of the twentieth century, the classical wave theory of radiation—a widely accepted theory in physics—began to encounter obstacles. This theory held that all electromagnetic radiation—the entire spectrum from gamma and X rays to radio frequencies, including heat and light—exists in the form of waves. One fundamental assumption of wave theory was that as the length of a wave of radiation shortens, its energy increases smoothly—like a volume dial on a radio that adjusts smoothly to any setting— and that any conceivable energy value could thus occur in nature. The major challenge to wave theory was the behavior of thermal radiation, the radiation emitted by an object due to the object's temperature, commonly called "blackbody" radiation because experiments aimed at measuring it require objects, such as black velvet or soot, with little or no reflective capability. Physicists can monitor the radiation coming from a blackbody object and be confident that they are observing its thermal radiation and not simply reflected radiation that has originated elsewhere. Employing the principles of wave theory, physicists originally predicted that blackbody objects radiated much more at short wavelengths, such as ultraviolet, than at long wavelengths. However, physicists using advanced experimental techniques near the turn of the century did not find the predicted amount of radiation at short wavelengths—in fact, they found almost none, a result that became known among wave theorists as the "ultraviolet catastrophe." Max Planck, a classical physicist who had made important contributions to wave theory, developed a hypothesis about atomic processes taking place in a blackbody object that broke with wave theory and accounted for the observed patterns of blackbody radiation. Planck discarded the assumption of radiation's smooth energy continuum and took the then bizarre position that these atomic processes could only involve discrete energies that jump between certain units of value—like a volume dial that "clicks" between incremental settings—and he thereby obtained numbers that perfectly fit the earlier experimental result. This directly opposed wave theory's picture of atomic processes, and the physics community was at first quite critical of Planck's hypothesis, in part because he presented it without physical explanation. Soon thereafter, however, Albert Einstein and other physicists provided theoretical justification for Planck's hypothesis. They found that upon being hit with part of the radiation spectrum, metal surfaces give off energy at values that are discontinuous. Further, they noted a threshold along the spectrum beyond which no energy is emitted by the metal. Einstein theorized, and later found evidence to confirm, that radiation is composed of particles, now called photons, which can be emitted only in discrete units and at certain wavelengths, in accordance with Planck's speculations. So in just a few years, what was considered a catastrophe generated a new vision in physics that led to theories still in place today.

200212_3-RC_3_19

Which one of the following can most clearly be inferred from the description of blackbody objects in the second paragraph?

With the approach of the twentieth century, the classical wave theory of radiation—a widely accepted theory in physics—began to encounter obstacles. This theory held that all electromagnetic radiation—the entire spectrum from gamma and X rays to radio frequencies, including heat and light—exists in the form of waves. One fundamental assumption of wave theory was that as the length of a wave of radiation shortens, its energy increases smoothly—like a volume dial on a radio that adjusts smoothly to any setting— and that any conceivable energy value could thus occur in nature. The major challenge to wave theory was the behavior of thermal radiation, the radiation emitted by an object due to the object's temperature, commonly called "blackbody" radiation because experiments aimed at measuring it require objects, such as black velvet or soot, with little or no reflective capability. Physicists can monitor the radiation coming from a blackbody object and be confident that they are observing its thermal radiation and not simply reflected radiation that has originated elsewhere. Employing the principles of wave theory, physicists originally predicted that blackbody objects radiated much more at short wavelengths, such as ultraviolet, than at long wavelengths. However, physicists using advanced experimental techniques near the turn of the century did not find the predicted amount of radiation at short wavelengths—in fact, they found almost none, a result that became known among wave theorists as the "ultraviolet catastrophe." Max Planck, a classical physicist who had made important contributions to wave theory, developed a hypothesis about atomic processes taking place in a blackbody object that broke with wave theory and accounted for the observed patterns of blackbody radiation. Planck discarded the assumption of radiation's smooth energy continuum and took the then bizarre position that these atomic processes could only involve discrete energies that jump between certain units of value—like a volume dial that "clicks" between incremental settings—and he thereby obtained numbers that perfectly fit the earlier experimental result. This directly opposed wave theory's picture of atomic processes, and the physics community was at first quite critical of Planck's hypothesis, in part because he presented it without physical explanation. Soon thereafter, however, Albert Einstein and other physicists provided theoretical justification for Planck's hypothesis. They found that upon being hit with part of the radiation spectrum, metal surfaces give off energy at values that are discontinuous. Further, they noted a threshold along the spectrum beyond which no energy is emitted by the metal. Einstein theorized, and later found evidence to confirm, that radiation is composed of particles, now called photons, which can be emitted only in discrete units and at certain wavelengths, in accordance with Planck's speculations. So in just a few years, what was considered a catastrophe generated a new vision in physics that led to theories still in place today.

200212_3-RC_3_20

The author's attitude toward Planck's development of a new hypothesis about atomic processes can most aptly be described as

With the approach of the twentieth century, the classical wave theory of radiation—a widely accepted theory in physics—began to encounter obstacles. This theory held that all electromagnetic radiation—the entire spectrum from gamma and X rays to radio frequencies, including heat and light—exists in the form of waves. One fundamental assumption of wave theory was that as the length of a wave of radiation shortens, its energy increases smoothly—like a volume dial on a radio that adjusts smoothly to any setting— and that any conceivable energy value could thus occur in nature. The major challenge to wave theory was the behavior of thermal radiation, the radiation emitted by an object due to the object's temperature, commonly called "blackbody" radiation because experiments aimed at measuring it require objects, such as black velvet or soot, with little or no reflective capability. Physicists can monitor the radiation coming from a blackbody object and be confident that they are observing its thermal radiation and not simply reflected radiation that has originated elsewhere. Employing the principles of wave theory, physicists originally predicted that blackbody objects radiated much more at short wavelengths, such as ultraviolet, than at long wavelengths. However, physicists using advanced experimental techniques near the turn of the century did not find the predicted amount of radiation at short wavelengths—in fact, they found almost none, a result that became known among wave theorists as the "ultraviolet catastrophe." Max Planck, a classical physicist who had made important contributions to wave theory, developed a hypothesis about atomic processes taking place in a blackbody object that broke with wave theory and accounted for the observed patterns of blackbody radiation. Planck discarded the assumption of radiation's smooth energy continuum and took the then bizarre position that these atomic processes could only involve discrete energies that jump between certain units of value—like a volume dial that "clicks" between incremental settings—and he thereby obtained numbers that perfectly fit the earlier experimental result. This directly opposed wave theory's picture of atomic processes, and the physics community was at first quite critical of Planck's hypothesis, in part because he presented it without physical explanation. Soon thereafter, however, Albert Einstein and other physicists provided theoretical justification for Planck's hypothesis. They found that upon being hit with part of the radiation spectrum, metal surfaces give off energy at values that are discontinuous. Further, they noted a threshold along the spectrum beyond which no energy is emitted by the metal. Einstein theorized, and later found evidence to confirm, that radiation is composed of particles, now called photons, which can be emitted only in discrete units and at certain wavelengths, in accordance with Planck's speculations. So in just a few years, what was considered a catastrophe generated a new vision in physics that led to theories still in place today.

200212_3-RC_3_21

The passage provides information that answers each of the following questions EXCEPT:

With the approach of the twentieth century, the classical wave theory of radiation—a widely accepted theory in physics—began to encounter obstacles. This theory held that all electromagnetic radiation—the entire spectrum from gamma and X rays to radio frequencies, including heat and light—exists in the form of waves. One fundamental assumption of wave theory was that as the length of a wave of radiation shortens, its energy increases smoothly—like a volume dial on a radio that adjusts smoothly to any setting— and that any conceivable energy value could thus occur in nature. The major challenge to wave theory was the behavior of thermal radiation, the radiation emitted by an object due to the object's temperature, commonly called "blackbody" radiation because experiments aimed at measuring it require objects, such as black velvet or soot, with little or no reflective capability. Physicists can monitor the radiation coming from a blackbody object and be confident that they are observing its thermal radiation and not simply reflected radiation that has originated elsewhere. Employing the principles of wave theory, physicists originally predicted that blackbody objects radiated much more at short wavelengths, such as ultraviolet, than at long wavelengths. However, physicists using advanced experimental techniques near the turn of the century did not find the predicted amount of radiation at short wavelengths—in fact, they found almost none, a result that became known among wave theorists as the "ultraviolet catastrophe." Max Planck, a classical physicist who had made important contributions to wave theory, developed a hypothesis about atomic processes taking place in a blackbody object that broke with wave theory and accounted for the observed patterns of blackbody radiation. Planck discarded the assumption of radiation's smooth energy continuum and took the then bizarre position that these atomic processes could only involve discrete energies that jump between certain units of value—like a volume dial that "clicks" between incremental settings—and he thereby obtained numbers that perfectly fit the earlier experimental result. This directly opposed wave theory's picture of atomic processes, and the physics community was at first quite critical of Planck's hypothesis, in part because he presented it without physical explanation. Soon thereafter, however, Albert Einstein and other physicists provided theoretical justification for Planck's hypothesis. They found that upon being hit with part of the radiation spectrum, metal surfaces give off energy at values that are discontinuous. Further, they noted a threshold along the spectrum beyond which no energy is emitted by the metal. Einstein theorized, and later found evidence to confirm, that radiation is composed of particles, now called photons, which can be emitted only in discrete units and at certain wavelengths, in accordance with Planck's speculations. So in just a few years, what was considered a catastrophe generated a new vision in physics that led to theories still in place today.

200212_3-RC_3_22

The primary function of the first two paragraphs of the passage is to

With the approach of the twentieth century, the classical wave theory of radiation—a widely accepted theory in physics—began to encounter obstacles. This theory held that all electromagnetic radiation—the entire spectrum from gamma and X rays to radio frequencies, including heat and light—exists in the form of waves. One fundamental assumption of wave theory was that as the length of a wave of radiation shortens, its energy increases smoothly—like a volume dial on a radio that adjusts smoothly to any setting— and that any conceivable energy value could thus occur in nature. The major challenge to wave theory was the behavior of thermal radiation, the radiation emitted by an object due to the object's temperature, commonly called "blackbody" radiation because experiments aimed at measuring it require objects, such as black velvet or soot, with little or no reflective capability. Physicists can monitor the radiation coming from a blackbody object and be confident that they are observing its thermal radiation and not simply reflected radiation that has originated elsewhere. Employing the principles of wave theory, physicists originally predicted that blackbody objects radiated much more at short wavelengths, such as ultraviolet, than at long wavelengths. However, physicists using advanced experimental techniques near the turn of the century did not find the predicted amount of radiation at short wavelengths—in fact, they found almost none, a result that became known among wave theorists as the "ultraviolet catastrophe." Max Planck, a classical physicist who had made important contributions to wave theory, developed a hypothesis about atomic processes taking place in a blackbody object that broke with wave theory and accounted for the observed patterns of blackbody radiation. Planck discarded the assumption of radiation's smooth energy continuum and took the then bizarre position that these atomic processes could only involve discrete energies that jump between certain units of value—like a volume dial that "clicks" between incremental settings—and he thereby obtained numbers that perfectly fit the earlier experimental result. This directly opposed wave theory's picture of atomic processes, and the physics community was at first quite critical of Planck's hypothesis, in part because he presented it without physical explanation. Soon thereafter, however, Albert Einstein and other physicists provided theoretical justification for Planck's hypothesis. They found that upon being hit with part of the radiation spectrum, metal surfaces give off energy at values that are discontinuous. Further, they noted a threshold along the spectrum beyond which no energy is emitted by the metal. Einstein theorized, and later found evidence to confirm, that radiation is composed of particles, now called photons, which can be emitted only in discrete units and at certain wavelengths, in accordance with Planck's speculations. So in just a few years, what was considered a catastrophe generated a new vision in physics that led to theories still in place today.

200212_3-RC_3_23

The passage is primarily concerned with

The following passage was written in the mid-1990s. Users of the Internet—the worldwide network of interconnected computer systems—envision it as a way for people to have free access to information via their personal computers. Most Internet communication consists of sending electronic mail or exchanging ideas on electronic bulletin boards; however, a growing number of transmissions are of copyrighted works— books, photographs, videos and films, and sound recordings. In Canada, as elsewhere, the goals of Internet users have begun to conflict with reality as copyright holders look for ways to protect their material from unauthorized and uncompensated distribution. Copyright experts say that Canadian copyright law, which was revised in 1987 to cover works such as choreography and photography, has not kept pace with technology—specifically with digitalization, the conversion of data into a series of digits that are transmitted as electronic signals over computer networks. Digitalization makes it possible to create an unlimited number of copies of a book, recording, or movie and distribute them to millions of people around the world. Current law prohibits unauthorized parties from reproducing a work or any substantial part of it in any material form (e.g., photocopies of books or pirated audiotapes), but because digitalization merely transforms the work into electronic signals in a computer's memory, it is not clear whether digitalization constitutes a material reproduction—and so unauthorized digitalization is not yet technically a crime. Some experts propose simply adding unauthorized digitalization to the list of activities proscribed under current law, to make it clear that copyright holders own electronic reproduction rights just as they own rights to other types of reproduction. But criminalizing digitalization raises a host of questions. For example, given that digitalization allows the multiple recipients of a transmission to re-create copies of a work, would only the act of digitalization itself be criminal, or should each copy made from the transmission be considered a separate instance of piracy—even though those who made the copies never had access to the original? In addition, laws against digitalization might be virtually unenforceable given that an estimated 20 million people around the world have access to the Internet, and that copying and distributing material is a relatively simple process. Furthermore, even an expanded law might not cover the majority of transmissions, given the vast numbers of users who are academics and the fact that current copyright law allows generous exemptions for those engaged in private study or research. But even if the law is revised to contain a more sophisticated treatment of digitalization, most experts think it will be hard to resolve the clash between the Internet community, which is accustomed to treating information as raw material available for everyone to use, and the publishing community, which is accustomed to treating it as a commodity owned by its creator.

200212_3-RC_4_24

Which one of the following most accurately expresses the main point of the passage?

The following passage was written in the mid-1990s. Users of the Internet—the worldwide network of interconnected computer systems—envision it as a way for people to have free access to information via their personal computers. Most Internet communication consists of sending electronic mail or exchanging ideas on electronic bulletin boards; however, a growing number of transmissions are of copyrighted works— books, photographs, videos and films, and sound recordings. In Canada, as elsewhere, the goals of Internet users have begun to conflict with reality as copyright holders look for ways to protect their material from unauthorized and uncompensated distribution. Copyright experts say that Canadian copyright law, which was revised in 1987 to cover works such as choreography and photography, has not kept pace with technology—specifically with digitalization, the conversion of data into a series of digits that are transmitted as electronic signals over computer networks. Digitalization makes it possible to create an unlimited number of copies of a book, recording, or movie and distribute them to millions of people around the world. Current law prohibits unauthorized parties from reproducing a work or any substantial part of it in any material form (e.g., photocopies of books or pirated audiotapes), but because digitalization merely transforms the work into electronic signals in a computer's memory, it is not clear whether digitalization constitutes a material reproduction—and so unauthorized digitalization is not yet technically a crime. Some experts propose simply adding unauthorized digitalization to the list of activities proscribed under current law, to make it clear that copyright holders own electronic reproduction rights just as they own rights to other types of reproduction. But criminalizing digitalization raises a host of questions. For example, given that digitalization allows the multiple recipients of a transmission to re-create copies of a work, would only the act of digitalization itself be criminal, or should each copy made from the transmission be considered a separate instance of piracy—even though those who made the copies never had access to the original? In addition, laws against digitalization might be virtually unenforceable given that an estimated 20 million people around the world have access to the Internet, and that copying and distributing material is a relatively simple process. Furthermore, even an expanded law might not cover the majority of transmissions, given the vast numbers of users who are academics and the fact that current copyright law allows generous exemptions for those engaged in private study or research. But even if the law is revised to contain a more sophisticated treatment of digitalization, most experts think it will be hard to resolve the clash between the Internet community, which is accustomed to treating information as raw material available for everyone to use, and the publishing community, which is accustomed to treating it as a commodity owned by its creator.

200212_3-RC_4_25

Given the author's argument, which one of the following additions to current Canadian copyright law would most likely be an agreeable compromise to both the Internet community and the publishing community?

The following passage was written in the mid-1990s. Users of the Internet—the worldwide network of interconnected computer systems—envision it as a way for people to have free access to information via their personal computers. Most Internet communication consists of sending electronic mail or exchanging ideas on electronic bulletin boards; however, a growing number of transmissions are of copyrighted works— books, photographs, videos and films, and sound recordings. In Canada, as elsewhere, the goals of Internet users have begun to conflict with reality as copyright holders look for ways to protect their material from unauthorized and uncompensated distribution. Copyright experts say that Canadian copyright law, which was revised in 1987 to cover works such as choreography and photography, has not kept pace with technology—specifically with digitalization, the conversion of data into a series of digits that are transmitted as electronic signals over computer networks. Digitalization makes it possible to create an unlimited number of copies of a book, recording, or movie and distribute them to millions of people around the world. Current law prohibits unauthorized parties from reproducing a work or any substantial part of it in any material form (e.g., photocopies of books or pirated audiotapes), but because digitalization merely transforms the work into electronic signals in a computer's memory, it is not clear whether digitalization constitutes a material reproduction—and so unauthorized digitalization is not yet technically a crime. Some experts propose simply adding unauthorized digitalization to the list of activities proscribed under current law, to make it clear that copyright holders own electronic reproduction rights just as they own rights to other types of reproduction. But criminalizing digitalization raises a host of questions. For example, given that digitalization allows the multiple recipients of a transmission to re-create copies of a work, would only the act of digitalization itself be criminal, or should each copy made from the transmission be considered a separate instance of piracy—even though those who made the copies never had access to the original? In addition, laws against digitalization might be virtually unenforceable given that an estimated 20 million people around the world have access to the Internet, and that copying and distributing material is a relatively simple process. Furthermore, even an expanded law might not cover the majority of transmissions, given the vast numbers of users who are academics and the fact that current copyright law allows generous exemptions for those engaged in private study or research. But even if the law is revised to contain a more sophisticated treatment of digitalization, most experts think it will be hard to resolve the clash between the Internet community, which is accustomed to treating information as raw material available for everyone to use, and the publishing community, which is accustomed to treating it as a commodity owned by its creator.

200212_3-RC_4_26

The discussion in the second paragraph is intended primarily to explain which one of the following?