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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_27

The passage supports each of the following inferences EXCEPT:

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_28

Which one of the following views can most reasonably be attributed to the experts cited in line 32?

Social scientists have traditionally defined multipolar international systems as consisting of three or more nations, each of roughly equal military and economic strength. Theoretically, the members of such systems create shifting, temporary alliances in response to changing circumstances in the international environment. Such systems are, thus, fluid and flexible. Frequent, small confrontations are one attribute of multipolar systems and are usually the result of less powerful members grouping together to counter threats from larger, more aggressive members seeking hegemony. Yet the constant and inevitable counterbalancing typical of such systems usually results in stability. The best-known example of a multipolar system is the Concert of Europe, which coincided with general peace on that continent lasting roughly 100 years beginning around 1815. Bipolar systems, on the other hand, involve two major members of roughly equal military and economic strength vying for power and advantage. Other members of lesser strength tend to coalesce around one or the other pole. Such systems tend to be rigid and fixed, in part due to the existence of only one axis of power. Zero-sum political and military maneuverings, in which a gain for one side results in an equivalent loss for the other, are a salient feature of bipolar systems. Overall superiority is sought by both major members, which can lead to frequent confrontations, debilitating armed conflict, and, eventually, to the capitulation of one or the other side. Athens and Sparta of ancient Greece had a bipolar relationship, as did the United States and the USSR during the Cold War. However, the shift in the geopolitical landscape following the end of the Cold War calls for a reassessment of the assumptions underlying these two theoretical concepts. The emerging but still vague multipolar system in Europe today brings with it the unsettling prospect of new conflicts and shifting alliances that may lead to a diminution, rather than an enhancement, of security. The frequent, small confrontations that are thought to have kept the Concert of Europe in a state of equilibrium would today, as nations arm themselves with modern weapons, create instability that could destroy the system. And the larger number of members and shifting alliance patterns peculiar to multipolar systems would create a bewildering tangle of conflicts. This reassessment may also lead us to look at the Cold War in a new light. In 1914 smaller members of the multipolar system in Europe brought the larger members into a war that engulfed the continent. The aftermath—a crippled system in which certain members were dismantled, punished, or voluntarily withdrew—created the conditions that led to World War II. In contrast, the principal attributes of bipolar systems—two major members with only one possible axis of conflict locked in a rigid yet usually stable struggle for power—may have created the necessary parameters for general peace in the second half of the twentieth century.

200306_4-RC_1_1

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

Social scientists have traditionally defined multipolar international systems as consisting of three or more nations, each of roughly equal military and economic strength. Theoretically, the members of such systems create shifting, temporary alliances in response to changing circumstances in the international environment. Such systems are, thus, fluid and flexible. Frequent, small confrontations are one attribute of multipolar systems and are usually the result of less powerful members grouping together to counter threats from larger, more aggressive members seeking hegemony. Yet the constant and inevitable counterbalancing typical of such systems usually results in stability. The best-known example of a multipolar system is the Concert of Europe, which coincided with general peace on that continent lasting roughly 100 years beginning around 1815. Bipolar systems, on the other hand, involve two major members of roughly equal military and economic strength vying for power and advantage. Other members of lesser strength tend to coalesce around one or the other pole. Such systems tend to be rigid and fixed, in part due to the existence of only one axis of power. Zero-sum political and military maneuverings, in which a gain for one side results in an equivalent loss for the other, are a salient feature of bipolar systems. Overall superiority is sought by both major members, which can lead to frequent confrontations, debilitating armed conflict, and, eventually, to the capitulation of one or the other side. Athens and Sparta of ancient Greece had a bipolar relationship, as did the United States and the USSR during the Cold War. However, the shift in the geopolitical landscape following the end of the Cold War calls for a reassessment of the assumptions underlying these two theoretical concepts. The emerging but still vague multipolar system in Europe today brings with it the unsettling prospect of new conflicts and shifting alliances that may lead to a diminution, rather than an enhancement, of security. The frequent, small confrontations that are thought to have kept the Concert of Europe in a state of equilibrium would today, as nations arm themselves with modern weapons, create instability that could destroy the system. And the larger number of members and shifting alliance patterns peculiar to multipolar systems would create a bewildering tangle of conflicts. This reassessment may also lead us to look at the Cold War in a new light. In 1914 smaller members of the multipolar system in Europe brought the larger members into a war that engulfed the continent. The aftermath—a crippled system in which certain members were dismantled, punished, or voluntarily withdrew—created the conditions that led to World War II. In contrast, the principal attributes of bipolar systems—two major members with only one possible axis of conflict locked in a rigid yet usually stable struggle for power—may have created the necessary parameters for general peace in the second half of the twentieth century.

200306_4-RC_1_2

Which one of the following statements most accurately describes the function of the final paragraph?

Social scientists have traditionally defined multipolar international systems as consisting of three or more nations, each of roughly equal military and economic strength. Theoretically, the members of such systems create shifting, temporary alliances in response to changing circumstances in the international environment. Such systems are, thus, fluid and flexible. Frequent, small confrontations are one attribute of multipolar systems and are usually the result of less powerful members grouping together to counter threats from larger, more aggressive members seeking hegemony. Yet the constant and inevitable counterbalancing typical of such systems usually results in stability. The best-known example of a multipolar system is the Concert of Europe, which coincided with general peace on that continent lasting roughly 100 years beginning around 1815. Bipolar systems, on the other hand, involve two major members of roughly equal military and economic strength vying for power and advantage. Other members of lesser strength tend to coalesce around one or the other pole. Such systems tend to be rigid and fixed, in part due to the existence of only one axis of power. Zero-sum political and military maneuverings, in which a gain for one side results in an equivalent loss for the other, are a salient feature of bipolar systems. Overall superiority is sought by both major members, which can lead to frequent confrontations, debilitating armed conflict, and, eventually, to the capitulation of one or the other side. Athens and Sparta of ancient Greece had a bipolar relationship, as did the United States and the USSR during the Cold War. However, the shift in the geopolitical landscape following the end of the Cold War calls for a reassessment of the assumptions underlying these two theoretical concepts. The emerging but still vague multipolar system in Europe today brings with it the unsettling prospect of new conflicts and shifting alliances that may lead to a diminution, rather than an enhancement, of security. The frequent, small confrontations that are thought to have kept the Concert of Europe in a state of equilibrium would today, as nations arm themselves with modern weapons, create instability that could destroy the system. And the larger number of members and shifting alliance patterns peculiar to multipolar systems would create a bewildering tangle of conflicts. This reassessment may also lead us to look at the Cold War in a new light. In 1914 smaller members of the multipolar system in Europe brought the larger members into a war that engulfed the continent. The aftermath—a crippled system in which certain members were dismantled, punished, or voluntarily withdrew—created the conditions that led to World War II. In contrast, the principal attributes of bipolar systems—two major members with only one possible axis of conflict locked in a rigid yet usually stable struggle for power—may have created the necessary parameters for general peace in the second half of the twentieth century.

200306_4-RC_1_3

The author's reference to the possibility that confrontations may lead to capitulation (lines 27–30) serves primarily to

Social scientists have traditionally defined multipolar international systems as consisting of three or more nations, each of roughly equal military and economic strength. Theoretically, the members of such systems create shifting, temporary alliances in response to changing circumstances in the international environment. Such systems are, thus, fluid and flexible. Frequent, small confrontations are one attribute of multipolar systems and are usually the result of less powerful members grouping together to counter threats from larger, more aggressive members seeking hegemony. Yet the constant and inevitable counterbalancing typical of such systems usually results in stability. The best-known example of a multipolar system is the Concert of Europe, which coincided with general peace on that continent lasting roughly 100 years beginning around 1815. Bipolar systems, on the other hand, involve two major members of roughly equal military and economic strength vying for power and advantage. Other members of lesser strength tend to coalesce around one or the other pole. Such systems tend to be rigid and fixed, in part due to the existence of only one axis of power. Zero-sum political and military maneuverings, in which a gain for one side results in an equivalent loss for the other, are a salient feature of bipolar systems. Overall superiority is sought by both major members, which can lead to frequent confrontations, debilitating armed conflict, and, eventually, to the capitulation of one or the other side. Athens and Sparta of ancient Greece had a bipolar relationship, as did the United States and the USSR during the Cold War. However, the shift in the geopolitical landscape following the end of the Cold War calls for a reassessment of the assumptions underlying these two theoretical concepts. The emerging but still vague multipolar system in Europe today brings with it the unsettling prospect of new conflicts and shifting alliances that may lead to a diminution, rather than an enhancement, of security. The frequent, small confrontations that are thought to have kept the Concert of Europe in a state of equilibrium would today, as nations arm themselves with modern weapons, create instability that could destroy the system. And the larger number of members and shifting alliance patterns peculiar to multipolar systems would create a bewildering tangle of conflicts. This reassessment may also lead us to look at the Cold War in a new light. In 1914 smaller members of the multipolar system in Europe brought the larger members into a war that engulfed the continent. The aftermath—a crippled system in which certain members were dismantled, punished, or voluntarily withdrew—created the conditions that led to World War II. In contrast, the principal attributes of bipolar systems—two major members with only one possible axis of conflict locked in a rigid yet usually stable struggle for power—may have created the necessary parameters for general peace in the second half of the twentieth century.

200306_4-RC_1_4

With respect to the Cold War, the author's attitude can most accurately be described as

Social scientists have traditionally defined multipolar international systems as consisting of three or more nations, each of roughly equal military and economic strength. Theoretically, the members of such systems create shifting, temporary alliances in response to changing circumstances in the international environment. Such systems are, thus, fluid and flexible. Frequent, small confrontations are one attribute of multipolar systems and are usually the result of less powerful members grouping together to counter threats from larger, more aggressive members seeking hegemony. Yet the constant and inevitable counterbalancing typical of such systems usually results in stability. The best-known example of a multipolar system is the Concert of Europe, which coincided with general peace on that continent lasting roughly 100 years beginning around 1815. Bipolar systems, on the other hand, involve two major members of roughly equal military and economic strength vying for power and advantage. Other members of lesser strength tend to coalesce around one or the other pole. Such systems tend to be rigid and fixed, in part due to the existence of only one axis of power. Zero-sum political and military maneuverings, in which a gain for one side results in an equivalent loss for the other, are a salient feature of bipolar systems. Overall superiority is sought by both major members, which can lead to frequent confrontations, debilitating armed conflict, and, eventually, to the capitulation of one or the other side. Athens and Sparta of ancient Greece had a bipolar relationship, as did the United States and the USSR during the Cold War. However, the shift in the geopolitical landscape following the end of the Cold War calls for a reassessment of the assumptions underlying these two theoretical concepts. The emerging but still vague multipolar system in Europe today brings with it the unsettling prospect of new conflicts and shifting alliances that may lead to a diminution, rather than an enhancement, of security. The frequent, small confrontations that are thought to have kept the Concert of Europe in a state of equilibrium would today, as nations arm themselves with modern weapons, create instability that could destroy the system. And the larger number of members and shifting alliance patterns peculiar to multipolar systems would create a bewildering tangle of conflicts. This reassessment may also lead us to look at the Cold War in a new light. In 1914 smaller members of the multipolar system in Europe brought the larger members into a war that engulfed the continent. The aftermath—a crippled system in which certain members were dismantled, punished, or voluntarily withdrew—created the conditions that led to World War II. In contrast, the principal attributes of bipolar systems—two major members with only one possible axis of conflict locked in a rigid yet usually stable struggle for power—may have created the necessary parameters for general peace in the second half of the twentieth century.

200306_4-RC_1_5

Which one of the following statements concerning the Concert of Europe (lines 14–17) can most reasonably be inferred from the passage?

In spite of a shared language, Latin American poetry written in Spanish differs from Spanish poetry in many respects. The Spanish of Latin American poets is more open than that of Spanish poets, more exposed to outside influences—indigenous, English, French, and other languages. While some literary critics maintain that there is as much linguistic unity in Latin American poetry as there is in Spanish poetry, they base this claim on the fact that Castilian Spanish, the official and literary version of the Spanish language based largely on the dialect originally spoken in the Castile region of Spain, was transplanted to the Americas when it was already a relatively standardized idiom. Although such unity may have characterized the earliest Latin American poetry, after centuries in the Americas the language of Latin American poetry cannot help but reveal the influences of its unique cultural history. Latin American poetry is critical or irreverent in its attitude toward language, where that of Spanish poets is more accepting. For example, the Spanish-language incarnations of modernism and the avant-garde, two literary movements that used language in innovative and challenging ways, originated with Latin American poets. By contrast, when these movements later reached Spain, Spanish poets greeted them with reluctance. Spanish poets, even those of the modern era, seem to take their language for granted, rarely using it in radical or experimental ways. The most distinctive note in Latin American poetry is its enthusiastic response to the modern world, while Spanish poetry displays a kind of cultural conservatism—the desire to return to an ideal culture of the distant past. Because no Spanish-language culture lies in the equally distant (i.e., pre-Columbian) past of the Americas, but has instead been invented by Latin Americans day by day, Latin American poetry has no such long-standing past to romanticize. Instead, Latin American poetry often displays a curiosity about the literature of other cultures, an interest in exploring poetic structures beyond those typical of Spanish poetry. For example, the first Spanish-language haiku—a Japanese poetic form—were written by José Juan Tablada, a Mexican. Another of the Latin American poets' responses to this absence is the search for a world before recorded history—not only that of Spain or the Americas, but in some cases of the planet; the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's work, for example, is noteworthy for its development of an ahistorical mythology for the creation of the earth. For Latin American poets there is no such thing as the pristine cultural past affirmed in the poetry of Spain: there is only the fluid interaction of all world cultures, or else the extensive time before cultures began.

200306_4-RC_2_6

The discussion in the second paragraph is intended primarily to

In spite of a shared language, Latin American poetry written in Spanish differs from Spanish poetry in many respects. The Spanish of Latin American poets is more open than that of Spanish poets, more exposed to outside influences—indigenous, English, French, and other languages. While some literary critics maintain that there is as much linguistic unity in Latin American poetry as there is in Spanish poetry, they base this claim on the fact that Castilian Spanish, the official and literary version of the Spanish language based largely on the dialect originally spoken in the Castile region of Spain, was transplanted to the Americas when it was already a relatively standardized idiom. Although such unity may have characterized the earliest Latin American poetry, after centuries in the Americas the language of Latin American poetry cannot help but reveal the influences of its unique cultural history. Latin American poetry is critical or irreverent in its attitude toward language, where that of Spanish poets is more accepting. For example, the Spanish-language incarnations of modernism and the avant-garde, two literary movements that used language in innovative and challenging ways, originated with Latin American poets. By contrast, when these movements later reached Spain, Spanish poets greeted them with reluctance. Spanish poets, even those of the modern era, seem to take their language for granted, rarely using it in radical or experimental ways. The most distinctive note in Latin American poetry is its enthusiastic response to the modern world, while Spanish poetry displays a kind of cultural conservatism—the desire to return to an ideal culture of the distant past. Because no Spanish-language culture lies in the equally distant (i.e., pre-Columbian) past of the Americas, but has instead been invented by Latin Americans day by day, Latin American poetry has no such long-standing past to romanticize. Instead, Latin American poetry often displays a curiosity about the literature of other cultures, an interest in exploring poetic structures beyond those typical of Spanish poetry. For example, the first Spanish-language haiku—a Japanese poetic form—were written by José Juan Tablada, a Mexican. Another of the Latin American poets' responses to this absence is the search for a world before recorded history—not only that of Spain or the Americas, but in some cases of the planet; the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's work, for example, is noteworthy for its development of an ahistorical mythology for the creation of the earth. For Latin American poets there is no such thing as the pristine cultural past affirmed in the poetry of Spain: there is only the fluid interaction of all world cultures, or else the extensive time before cultures began.

200306_4-RC_2_7

Given the information in the passage, which one of the following is most analogous to the evolution of Latin American poetry?

In spite of a shared language, Latin American poetry written in Spanish differs from Spanish poetry in many respects. The Spanish of Latin American poets is more open than that of Spanish poets, more exposed to outside influences—indigenous, English, French, and other languages. While some literary critics maintain that there is as much linguistic unity in Latin American poetry as there is in Spanish poetry, they base this claim on the fact that Castilian Spanish, the official and literary version of the Spanish language based largely on the dialect originally spoken in the Castile region of Spain, was transplanted to the Americas when it was already a relatively standardized idiom. Although such unity may have characterized the earliest Latin American poetry, after centuries in the Americas the language of Latin American poetry cannot help but reveal the influences of its unique cultural history. Latin American poetry is critical or irreverent in its attitude toward language, where that of Spanish poets is more accepting. For example, the Spanish-language incarnations of modernism and the avant-garde, two literary movements that used language in innovative and challenging ways, originated with Latin American poets. By contrast, when these movements later reached Spain, Spanish poets greeted them with reluctance. Spanish poets, even those of the modern era, seem to take their language for granted, rarely using it in radical or experimental ways. The most distinctive note in Latin American poetry is its enthusiastic response to the modern world, while Spanish poetry displays a kind of cultural conservatism—the desire to return to an ideal culture of the distant past. Because no Spanish-language culture lies in the equally distant (i.e., pre-Columbian) past of the Americas, but has instead been invented by Latin Americans day by day, Latin American poetry has no such long-standing past to romanticize. Instead, Latin American poetry often displays a curiosity about the literature of other cultures, an interest in exploring poetic structures beyond those typical of Spanish poetry. For example, the first Spanish-language haiku—a Japanese poetic form—were written by José Juan Tablada, a Mexican. Another of the Latin American poets' responses to this absence is the search for a world before recorded history—not only that of Spain or the Americas, but in some cases of the planet; the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's work, for example, is noteworthy for its development of an ahistorical mythology for the creation of the earth. For Latin American poets there is no such thing as the pristine cultural past affirmed in the poetry of Spain: there is only the fluid interaction of all world cultures, or else the extensive time before cultures began.

200306_4-RC_2_8

The passage's claims about Spanish poetry would be most weakened if new evidence indicating which one of the following were discovered?

In spite of a shared language, Latin American poetry written in Spanish differs from Spanish poetry in many respects. The Spanish of Latin American poets is more open than that of Spanish poets, more exposed to outside influences—indigenous, English, French, and other languages. While some literary critics maintain that there is as much linguistic unity in Latin American poetry as there is in Spanish poetry, they base this claim on the fact that Castilian Spanish, the official and literary version of the Spanish language based largely on the dialect originally spoken in the Castile region of Spain, was transplanted to the Americas when it was already a relatively standardized idiom. Although such unity may have characterized the earliest Latin American poetry, after centuries in the Americas the language of Latin American poetry cannot help but reveal the influences of its unique cultural history. Latin American poetry is critical or irreverent in its attitude toward language, where that of Spanish poets is more accepting. For example, the Spanish-language incarnations of modernism and the avant-garde, two literary movements that used language in innovative and challenging ways, originated with Latin American poets. By contrast, when these movements later reached Spain, Spanish poets greeted them with reluctance. Spanish poets, even those of the modern era, seem to take their language for granted, rarely using it in radical or experimental ways. The most distinctive note in Latin American poetry is its enthusiastic response to the modern world, while Spanish poetry displays a kind of cultural conservatism—the desire to return to an ideal culture of the distant past. Because no Spanish-language culture lies in the equally distant (i.e., pre-Columbian) past of the Americas, but has instead been invented by Latin Americans day by day, Latin American poetry has no such long-standing past to romanticize. Instead, Latin American poetry often displays a curiosity about the literature of other cultures, an interest in exploring poetic structures beyond those typical of Spanish poetry. For example, the first Spanish-language haiku—a Japanese poetic form—were written by José Juan Tablada, a Mexican. Another of the Latin American poets' responses to this absence is the search for a world before recorded history—not only that of Spain or the Americas, but in some cases of the planet; the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's work, for example, is noteworthy for its development of an ahistorical mythology for the creation of the earth. For Latin American poets there is no such thing as the pristine cultural past affirmed in the poetry of Spain: there is only the fluid interaction of all world cultures, or else the extensive time before cultures began.

200306_4-RC_2_9

The passage affirms each of the following EXCEPT:

In spite of a shared language, Latin American poetry written in Spanish differs from Spanish poetry in many respects. The Spanish of Latin American poets is more open than that of Spanish poets, more exposed to outside influences—indigenous, English, French, and other languages. While some literary critics maintain that there is as much linguistic unity in Latin American poetry as there is in Spanish poetry, they base this claim on the fact that Castilian Spanish, the official and literary version of the Spanish language based largely on the dialect originally spoken in the Castile region of Spain, was transplanted to the Americas when it was already a relatively standardized idiom. Although such unity may have characterized the earliest Latin American poetry, after centuries in the Americas the language of Latin American poetry cannot help but reveal the influences of its unique cultural history. Latin American poetry is critical or irreverent in its attitude toward language, where that of Spanish poets is more accepting. For example, the Spanish-language incarnations of modernism and the avant-garde, two literary movements that used language in innovative and challenging ways, originated with Latin American poets. By contrast, when these movements later reached Spain, Spanish poets greeted them with reluctance. Spanish poets, even those of the modern era, seem to take their language for granted, rarely using it in radical or experimental ways. The most distinctive note in Latin American poetry is its enthusiastic response to the modern world, while Spanish poetry displays a kind of cultural conservatism—the desire to return to an ideal culture of the distant past. Because no Spanish-language culture lies in the equally distant (i.e., pre-Columbian) past of the Americas, but has instead been invented by Latin Americans day by day, Latin American poetry has no such long-standing past to romanticize. Instead, Latin American poetry often displays a curiosity about the literature of other cultures, an interest in exploring poetic structures beyond those typical of Spanish poetry. For example, the first Spanish-language haiku—a Japanese poetic form—were written by José Juan Tablada, a Mexican. Another of the Latin American poets' responses to this absence is the search for a world before recorded history—not only that of Spain or the Americas, but in some cases of the planet; the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's work, for example, is noteworthy for its development of an ahistorical mythology for the creation of the earth. For Latin American poets there is no such thing as the pristine cultural past affirmed in the poetry of Spain: there is only the fluid interaction of all world cultures, or else the extensive time before cultures began.

200306_4-RC_2_10

Which one of the following can most reasonably be inferred from the passage about Latin American poetry's use of poetic structures from other world cultures?

In spite of a shared language, Latin American poetry written in Spanish differs from Spanish poetry in many respects. The Spanish of Latin American poets is more open than that of Spanish poets, more exposed to outside influences—indigenous, English, French, and other languages. While some literary critics maintain that there is as much linguistic unity in Latin American poetry as there is in Spanish poetry, they base this claim on the fact that Castilian Spanish, the official and literary version of the Spanish language based largely on the dialect originally spoken in the Castile region of Spain, was transplanted to the Americas when it was already a relatively standardized idiom. Although such unity may have characterized the earliest Latin American poetry, after centuries in the Americas the language of Latin American poetry cannot help but reveal the influences of its unique cultural history. Latin American poetry is critical or irreverent in its attitude toward language, where that of Spanish poets is more accepting. For example, the Spanish-language incarnations of modernism and the avant-garde, two literary movements that used language in innovative and challenging ways, originated with Latin American poets. By contrast, when these movements later reached Spain, Spanish poets greeted them with reluctance. Spanish poets, even those of the modern era, seem to take their language for granted, rarely using it in radical or experimental ways. The most distinctive note in Latin American poetry is its enthusiastic response to the modern world, while Spanish poetry displays a kind of cultural conservatism—the desire to return to an ideal culture of the distant past. Because no Spanish-language culture lies in the equally distant (i.e., pre-Columbian) past of the Americas, but has instead been invented by Latin Americans day by day, Latin American poetry has no such long-standing past to romanticize. Instead, Latin American poetry often displays a curiosity about the literature of other cultures, an interest in exploring poetic structures beyond those typical of Spanish poetry. For example, the first Spanish-language haiku—a Japanese poetic form—were written by José Juan Tablada, a Mexican. Another of the Latin American poets' responses to this absence is the search for a world before recorded history—not only that of Spain or the Americas, but in some cases of the planet; the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's work, for example, is noteworthy for its development of an ahistorical mythology for the creation of the earth. For Latin American poets there is no such thing as the pristine cultural past affirmed in the poetry of Spain: there is only the fluid interaction of all world cultures, or else the extensive time before cultures began.

200306_4-RC_2_11

Based on the passage, the author most likely holds which one of the following views toward Spanish poetry's relationship to the Spanish cultural past?

In spite of a shared language, Latin American poetry written in Spanish differs from Spanish poetry in many respects. The Spanish of Latin American poets is more open than that of Spanish poets, more exposed to outside influences—indigenous, English, French, and other languages. While some literary critics maintain that there is as much linguistic unity in Latin American poetry as there is in Spanish poetry, they base this claim on the fact that Castilian Spanish, the official and literary version of the Spanish language based largely on the dialect originally spoken in the Castile region of Spain, was transplanted to the Americas when it was already a relatively standardized idiom. Although such unity may have characterized the earliest Latin American poetry, after centuries in the Americas the language of Latin American poetry cannot help but reveal the influences of its unique cultural history. Latin American poetry is critical or irreverent in its attitude toward language, where that of Spanish poets is more accepting. For example, the Spanish-language incarnations of modernism and the avant-garde, two literary movements that used language in innovative and challenging ways, originated with Latin American poets. By contrast, when these movements later reached Spain, Spanish poets greeted them with reluctance. Spanish poets, even those of the modern era, seem to take their language for granted, rarely using it in radical or experimental ways. The most distinctive note in Latin American poetry is its enthusiastic response to the modern world, while Spanish poetry displays a kind of cultural conservatism—the desire to return to an ideal culture of the distant past. Because no Spanish-language culture lies in the equally distant (i.e., pre-Columbian) past of the Americas, but has instead been invented by Latin Americans day by day, Latin American poetry has no such long-standing past to romanticize. Instead, Latin American poetry often displays a curiosity about the literature of other cultures, an interest in exploring poetic structures beyond those typical of Spanish poetry. For example, the first Spanish-language haiku—a Japanese poetic form—were written by José Juan Tablada, a Mexican. Another of the Latin American poets' responses to this absence is the search for a world before recorded history—not only that of Spain or the Americas, but in some cases of the planet; the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's work, for example, is noteworthy for its development of an ahistorical mythology for the creation of the earth. For Latin American poets there is no such thing as the pristine cultural past affirmed in the poetry of Spain: there is only the fluid interaction of all world cultures, or else the extensive time before cultures began.

200306_4-RC_2_12

Which one of the following inferences is most supported by the passage?

According to the theory of gravitation, every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that increases as either the mass of the particles increases, or their proximity to one another increases, or both. Gravitation is believed to shape the structures of stars, galaxies, and the entire universe. But for decades cosmologists (scientists who study the universe) have attempted to account for the finding that at least 90 percent of the universe seems to be missing: that the total amount of observable matter—stars, dust, and miscellaneous debris—does not contain enough mass to explain why the universe is organized in the shape of galaxies and clusters of galaxies. To account for this discrepancy, cosmologists hypothesize that something else, which they call "dark matter," provides the gravitational force necessary to make the huge structures cohere What is dark matter? Numerous exotic entities have been postulated, but among the more attractive candidates—because they are known actually to exist—are neutrinos, elementary particles created as a by-product of nuclear fusion, radioactive decay, or catastrophic collisions between other particles. Neutrinos, which come in three types, are by far the most numerous kind of particle in the universe; however, they have long been assumed to have no mass. If so, that would disqualify them as dark matter. Without mass, matter cannot exert gravitational force; without such force, it cannot induce other matter to cohere. But new evidence suggests that a neutrino does have mass. This evidence came by way of research findings supporting the existence of a long-theorized but never observed phenomenon called oscillation, whereby each of the three neutrino types can change into one of the others as it travels through space. Researchers held that the transformation is possible only if neutrinos also have mass. They obtained experimental confirmation of the theory by generating one neutrino type and then finding evidence that it had oscillated into the predicted neutrino type. In the process, they were able to estimate the mass of a neutrino at from 0.5 to 5 electron volts. While slight, even the lowest estimate would yield a lot of mass given that neutrinos are so numerous, especially considering that neutrinos were previously assumed to have no mass. Still, even at the highest estimate, neutrinos could only account for about 20 percent of the universe's "missing" mass. Nevertheless, that is enough to alter our picture of the universe even if it does not account for all of dark matter. In fact, some cosmologists claim that this new evidence offers the best theoretical solution yet to the dark matter problem. If the evidence holds up, these cosmologists believe, it may add to our understanding of the role elementary particles play in holding the universe together.

200306_4-RC_3_13

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

According to the theory of gravitation, every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that increases as either the mass of the particles increases, or their proximity to one another increases, or both. Gravitation is believed to shape the structures of stars, galaxies, and the entire universe. But for decades cosmologists (scientists who study the universe) have attempted to account for the finding that at least 90 percent of the universe seems to be missing: that the total amount of observable matter—stars, dust, and miscellaneous debris—does not contain enough mass to explain why the universe is organized in the shape of galaxies and clusters of galaxies. To account for this discrepancy, cosmologists hypothesize that something else, which they call "dark matter," provides the gravitational force necessary to make the huge structures cohere What is dark matter? Numerous exotic entities have been postulated, but among the more attractive candidates—because they are known actually to exist—are neutrinos, elementary particles created as a by-product of nuclear fusion, radioactive decay, or catastrophic collisions between other particles. Neutrinos, which come in three types, are by far the most numerous kind of particle in the universe; however, they have long been assumed to have no mass. If so, that would disqualify them as dark matter. Without mass, matter cannot exert gravitational force; without such force, it cannot induce other matter to cohere. But new evidence suggests that a neutrino does have mass. This evidence came by way of research findings supporting the existence of a long-theorized but never observed phenomenon called oscillation, whereby each of the three neutrino types can change into one of the others as it travels through space. Researchers held that the transformation is possible only if neutrinos also have mass. They obtained experimental confirmation of the theory by generating one neutrino type and then finding evidence that it had oscillated into the predicted neutrino type. In the process, they were able to estimate the mass of a neutrino at from 0.5 to 5 electron volts. While slight, even the lowest estimate would yield a lot of mass given that neutrinos are so numerous, especially considering that neutrinos were previously assumed to have no mass. Still, even at the highest estimate, neutrinos could only account for about 20 percent of the universe's "missing" mass. Nevertheless, that is enough to alter our picture of the universe even if it does not account for all of dark matter. In fact, some cosmologists claim that this new evidence offers the best theoretical solution yet to the dark matter problem. If the evidence holds up, these cosmologists believe, it may add to our understanding of the role elementary particles play in holding the universe together.

200306_4-RC_3_14

Which one of the following titles most completely and accurately expresses the contents of the passage?

According to the theory of gravitation, every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that increases as either the mass of the particles increases, or their proximity to one another increases, or both. Gravitation is believed to shape the structures of stars, galaxies, and the entire universe. But for decades cosmologists (scientists who study the universe) have attempted to account for the finding that at least 90 percent of the universe seems to be missing: that the total amount of observable matter—stars, dust, and miscellaneous debris—does not contain enough mass to explain why the universe is organized in the shape of galaxies and clusters of galaxies. To account for this discrepancy, cosmologists hypothesize that something else, which they call "dark matter," provides the gravitational force necessary to make the huge structures cohere What is dark matter? Numerous exotic entities have been postulated, but among the more attractive candidates—because they are known actually to exist—are neutrinos, elementary particles created as a by-product of nuclear fusion, radioactive decay, or catastrophic collisions between other particles. Neutrinos, which come in three types, are by far the most numerous kind of particle in the universe; however, they have long been assumed to have no mass. If so, that would disqualify them as dark matter. Without mass, matter cannot exert gravitational force; without such force, it cannot induce other matter to cohere. But new evidence suggests that a neutrino does have mass. This evidence came by way of research findings supporting the existence of a long-theorized but never observed phenomenon called oscillation, whereby each of the three neutrino types can change into one of the others as it travels through space. Researchers held that the transformation is possible only if neutrinos also have mass. They obtained experimental confirmation of the theory by generating one neutrino type and then finding evidence that it had oscillated into the predicted neutrino type. In the process, they were able to estimate the mass of a neutrino at from 0.5 to 5 electron volts. While slight, even the lowest estimate would yield a lot of mass given that neutrinos are so numerous, especially considering that neutrinos were previously assumed to have no mass. Still, even at the highest estimate, neutrinos could only account for about 20 percent of the universe's "missing" mass. Nevertheless, that is enough to alter our picture of the universe even if it does not account for all of dark matter. In fact, some cosmologists claim that this new evidence offers the best theoretical solution yet to the dark matter problem. If the evidence holds up, these cosmologists believe, it may add to our understanding of the role elementary particles play in holding the universe together.

200306_4-RC_3_15

Based on the passage, the author most likely holds which one of the following views?

According to the theory of gravitation, every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that increases as either the mass of the particles increases, or their proximity to one another increases, or both. Gravitation is believed to shape the structures of stars, galaxies, and the entire universe. But for decades cosmologists (scientists who study the universe) have attempted to account for the finding that at least 90 percent of the universe seems to be missing: that the total amount of observable matter—stars, dust, and miscellaneous debris—does not contain enough mass to explain why the universe is organized in the shape of galaxies and clusters of galaxies. To account for this discrepancy, cosmologists hypothesize that something else, which they call "dark matter," provides the gravitational force necessary to make the huge structures cohere What is dark matter? Numerous exotic entities have been postulated, but among the more attractive candidates—because they are known actually to exist—are neutrinos, elementary particles created as a by-product of nuclear fusion, radioactive decay, or catastrophic collisions between other particles. Neutrinos, which come in three types, are by far the most numerous kind of particle in the universe; however, they have long been assumed to have no mass. If so, that would disqualify them as dark matter. Without mass, matter cannot exert gravitational force; without such force, it cannot induce other matter to cohere. But new evidence suggests that a neutrino does have mass. This evidence came by way of research findings supporting the existence of a long-theorized but never observed phenomenon called oscillation, whereby each of the three neutrino types can change into one of the others as it travels through space. Researchers held that the transformation is possible only if neutrinos also have mass. They obtained experimental confirmation of the theory by generating one neutrino type and then finding evidence that it had oscillated into the predicted neutrino type. In the process, they were able to estimate the mass of a neutrino at from 0.5 to 5 electron volts. While slight, even the lowest estimate would yield a lot of mass given that neutrinos are so numerous, especially considering that neutrinos were previously assumed to have no mass. Still, even at the highest estimate, neutrinos could only account for about 20 percent of the universe's "missing" mass. Nevertheless, that is enough to alter our picture of the universe even if it does not account for all of dark matter. In fact, some cosmologists claim that this new evidence offers the best theoretical solution yet to the dark matter problem. If the evidence holds up, these cosmologists believe, it may add to our understanding of the role elementary particles play in holding the universe together.

200306_4-RC_3_16

As described in the last paragraph of the passage, the cosmologists' approach to solving the dark matter problem is most analogous to which one of the following?

According to the theory of gravitation, every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that increases as either the mass of the particles increases, or their proximity to one another increases, or both. Gravitation is believed to shape the structures of stars, galaxies, and the entire universe. But for decades cosmologists (scientists who study the universe) have attempted to account for the finding that at least 90 percent of the universe seems to be missing: that the total amount of observable matter—stars, dust, and miscellaneous debris—does not contain enough mass to explain why the universe is organized in the shape of galaxies and clusters of galaxies. To account for this discrepancy, cosmologists hypothesize that something else, which they call "dark matter," provides the gravitational force necessary to make the huge structures cohere What is dark matter? Numerous exotic entities have been postulated, but among the more attractive candidates—because they are known actually to exist—are neutrinos, elementary particles created as a by-product of nuclear fusion, radioactive decay, or catastrophic collisions between other particles. Neutrinos, which come in three types, are by far the most numerous kind of particle in the universe; however, they have long been assumed to have no mass. If so, that would disqualify them as dark matter. Without mass, matter cannot exert gravitational force; without such force, it cannot induce other matter to cohere. But new evidence suggests that a neutrino does have mass. This evidence came by way of research findings supporting the existence of a long-theorized but never observed phenomenon called oscillation, whereby each of the three neutrino types can change into one of the others as it travels through space. Researchers held that the transformation is possible only if neutrinos also have mass. They obtained experimental confirmation of the theory by generating one neutrino type and then finding evidence that it had oscillated into the predicted neutrino type. In the process, they were able to estimate the mass of a neutrino at from 0.5 to 5 electron volts. While slight, even the lowest estimate would yield a lot of mass given that neutrinos are so numerous, especially considering that neutrinos were previously assumed to have no mass. Still, even at the highest estimate, neutrinos could only account for about 20 percent of the universe's "missing" mass. Nevertheless, that is enough to alter our picture of the universe even if it does not account for all of dark matter. In fact, some cosmologists claim that this new evidence offers the best theoretical solution yet to the dark matter problem. If the evidence holds up, these cosmologists believe, it may add to our understanding of the role elementary particles play in holding the universe together.

200306_4-RC_3_17

The author's attitude toward oscillation can most accurately be characterized as being

According to the theory of gravitation, every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that increases as either the mass of the particles increases, or their proximity to one another increases, or both. Gravitation is believed to shape the structures of stars, galaxies, and the entire universe. But for decades cosmologists (scientists who study the universe) have attempted to account for the finding that at least 90 percent of the universe seems to be missing: that the total amount of observable matter—stars, dust, and miscellaneous debris—does not contain enough mass to explain why the universe is organized in the shape of galaxies and clusters of galaxies. To account for this discrepancy, cosmologists hypothesize that something else, which they call "dark matter," provides the gravitational force necessary to make the huge structures cohere What is dark matter? Numerous exotic entities have been postulated, but among the more attractive candidates—because they are known actually to exist—are neutrinos, elementary particles created as a by-product of nuclear fusion, radioactive decay, or catastrophic collisions between other particles. Neutrinos, which come in three types, are by far the most numerous kind of particle in the universe; however, they have long been assumed to have no mass. If so, that would disqualify them as dark matter. Without mass, matter cannot exert gravitational force; without such force, it cannot induce other matter to cohere. But new evidence suggests that a neutrino does have mass. This evidence came by way of research findings supporting the existence of a long-theorized but never observed phenomenon called oscillation, whereby each of the three neutrino types can change into one of the others as it travels through space. Researchers held that the transformation is possible only if neutrinos also have mass. They obtained experimental confirmation of the theory by generating one neutrino type and then finding evidence that it had oscillated into the predicted neutrino type. In the process, they were able to estimate the mass of a neutrino at from 0.5 to 5 electron volts. While slight, even the lowest estimate would yield a lot of mass given that neutrinos are so numerous, especially considering that neutrinos were previously assumed to have no mass. Still, even at the highest estimate, neutrinos could only account for about 20 percent of the universe's "missing" mass. Nevertheless, that is enough to alter our picture of the universe even if it does not account for all of dark matter. In fact, some cosmologists claim that this new evidence offers the best theoretical solution yet to the dark matter problem. If the evidence holds up, these cosmologists believe, it may add to our understanding of the role elementary particles play in holding the universe together.

200306_4-RC_3_18

Which one of the following phrases could replace the word "cohere" at line 30 without substantively altering the author's meaning?

According to the theory of gravitation, every particle of matter in the universe attracts every other particle with a force that increases as either the mass of the particles increases, or their proximity to one another increases, or both. Gravitation is believed to shape the structures of stars, galaxies, and the entire universe. But for decades cosmologists (scientists who study the universe) have attempted to account for the finding that at least 90 percent of the universe seems to be missing: that the total amount of observable matter—stars, dust, and miscellaneous debris—does not contain enough mass to explain why the universe is organized in the shape of galaxies and clusters of galaxies. To account for this discrepancy, cosmologists hypothesize that something else, which they call "dark matter," provides the gravitational force necessary to make the huge structures cohere What is dark matter? Numerous exotic entities have been postulated, but among the more attractive candidates—because they are known actually to exist—are neutrinos, elementary particles created as a by-product of nuclear fusion, radioactive decay, or catastrophic collisions between other particles. Neutrinos, which come in three types, are by far the most numerous kind of particle in the universe; however, they have long been assumed to have no mass. If so, that would disqualify them as dark matter. Without mass, matter cannot exert gravitational force; without such force, it cannot induce other matter to cohere. But new evidence suggests that a neutrino does have mass. This evidence came by way of research findings supporting the existence of a long-theorized but never observed phenomenon called oscillation, whereby each of the three neutrino types can change into one of the others as it travels through space. Researchers held that the transformation is possible only if neutrinos also have mass. They obtained experimental confirmation of the theory by generating one neutrino type and then finding evidence that it had oscillated into the predicted neutrino type. In the process, they were able to estimate the mass of a neutrino at from 0.5 to 5 electron volts. While slight, even the lowest estimate would yield a lot of mass given that neutrinos are so numerous, especially considering that neutrinos were previously assumed to have no mass. Still, even at the highest estimate, neutrinos could only account for about 20 percent of the universe's "missing" mass. Nevertheless, that is enough to alter our picture of the universe even if it does not account for all of dark matter. In fact, some cosmologists claim that this new evidence offers the best theoretical solution yet to the dark matter problem. If the evidence holds up, these cosmologists believe, it may add to our understanding of the role elementary particles play in holding the universe together.

200306_4-RC_3_19

The passage states each of the following EXCEPT:

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_20

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

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_21

It can be reasonably inferred from the passage that which one of the following, if it were effectively implemented, would most increase the justice system's ability to prevent leading questions from causing mistaken court decisions?

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_22

Which one of the following is mentioned in the passage as a way in which new data suggested to a witness by a leading question are sometimes processed?

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_23

In discussing the tangential details of events, the passage contrasts their original significance to witnesses with their possible significance in the courtroom (lines 52–59). That contrast is most closely analogous to which one of the following?

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_24

Which one of the following questions is most directly answered by information in the passage?

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_25

The second paragraph consists primarily of material that

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_26

It can be most reasonably inferred from the passage that the author holds that the recent studies discussed in the passage

Leading questions—questions worded in such a way as to suggest a particular answer—can yield unreliable testimony either by design, as when a lawyer tries to trick a witness into affirming a particular version of the evidence of a case, or by accident, when a questioner unintentionally prejudices the witness's response. For this reason, a judge can disallow such questions in the courtroom interrogation of witnesses. But their exclusion from the courtroom by no means eliminates the remote effects of earlier leading questions on eyewitness testimony. Alarmingly, the beliefs about an event that a witness brings to the courtroom may often be adulterated by the effects of leading questions that were introduced intentionally or unintentionally by lawyers, police investigators, reporters, or others with whom the witness has already interacted. Recent studies have confirmed the ability of leading questions to alter the details of our memories and have led to a better understanding of how this process occurs and, perhaps, of the conditions that make for greater risks that an eyewitness's memories have been tainted by leading questions. These studies suggest that not all details of our experiences become clearly or stably stored in memory—only those to which we give adequate attention. Moreover, experimental evidence indicates that if subtly introduced new data involving remembered events do not actively conflict with our stored memory data, we tend to process such new data similarly whether they correspond to details as we remember them, or to gaps in those details. In the former case, we often retain the new data as a reinforcement of the corresponding aspect of the memory, and in the latter case, we often retain them as a construction to fill the corresponding gap. An eyewitness who is asked, prior to courtroom testimony, "How fast was the car going when it passed the stop sign?" may respond to the query about speed without addressing the question of the stop sign. But the "stop sign" datum has now been introduced, and when later recalled, perhaps during courtroom testimony, it may be processed as belonging to the original memory even if the witness actually saw no stop sign. The farther removed from the event, the greater the chance of a vague or incomplete recollection and the greater the likelihood of newly suggested information blending with original memories. Since we can be more easily misled with respect to fainter and more uncertain memories, tangential details are more apt to become constructed out of subsequently introduced information than are more central details. But what is tangential to a witness's original experience of an event may nevertheless be crucial to the courtroom issues that the witness's memories are supposed to resolve. For example, a perpetrator's shirt color or hairstyle might be tangential to one's shocked observance of an armed robbery, but later those factors might be crucial to establishing the identity of the perpetrator.

200306_4-RC_4_27

Which one of the following can be most reasonably inferred from the information in the passage?

The accumulation of scientific knowledge regarding the environmental impact of oil well drilling in North America has tended to lag behind the actual drilling of oil wells. Most attempts to regulate the industry have relied on hindsight: the need for regulation becomes apparent only after undesirable events occur. The problems associated with oil wells' potential contamination of groundwater—fresh water within the earth that supplies wells and springs—provide a case in point. When commercial drilling for oil began in North America in the mid-nineteenth century, regulations reflected the industry's concern for the purity of the wells' oil. In 1893, for example, regulations were enacted specifying well construction requirements to protect oil and gas reserves from contamination by fresh water. Thousands of wells were drilled in such a way as to protect the oil, but no thought was given to the possibility that the groundwater itself might need protection until many drinking-water wells near the oil well sites began to produce unpotable, oil-contaminated water. The reason for this contamination was that groundwater is usually found in porous and permeable geologic formations near the earth's surface, whereas petroleum and unpotable saline water reservoirs are generally found in similar formations but at greater depths. Drilling a well creates a conduit connecting all the formations that it has penetrated. Consequently, without appropriate safeguards, wells that penetrate both groundwater and oil or saline water formations inevitably contaminate the groundwater. Initial attempts to prevent this contamination consisted of sealing off the groundwater formations with some form of protective barrier to prevent the oil flowing up the well from entering or mixing with the natural groundwater reservoir. This method, which is still in use today, initially involved using hollow trees to seal off the groundwater formations; now, however, large metal pipe casings, set in place with cement, are used. Regulations currently govern the kinds of casing and cement that can be used in these practices; however, the hazards of insufficient knowledge persist. For example, the long-term stability of this way of protecting groundwater is unknown. The protective barrier may fail due to corrosion of the casing by certain fluids flowing up the well, or because of dissolution of the cement by these fluids. The effects of groundwater bacteria, traffic vibrations, and changing groundwater chemistry are likewise unassessed. Further, there is no guarantee that wells drilled in compliance with existing regulations will not expose a need for research in additional areas: on the west coast of North America, a major disaster recently occurred because a well's location was based on a poor understanding of the area's subsurface geology. Because the well was drilled in a channel accessing the ocean, not only was the area's groundwater completely contaminated, but widespread coastal contamination also occurred, prompting international concern over oil exploration and initiating further attempts to refine regulations.

200406_1-RC_1_1

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

The accumulation of scientific knowledge regarding the environmental impact of oil well drilling in North America has tended to lag behind the actual drilling of oil wells. Most attempts to regulate the industry have relied on hindsight: the need for regulation becomes apparent only after undesirable events occur. The problems associated with oil wells' potential contamination of groundwater—fresh water within the earth that supplies wells and springs—provide a case in point. When commercial drilling for oil began in North America in the mid-nineteenth century, regulations reflected the industry's concern for the purity of the wells' oil. In 1893, for example, regulations were enacted specifying well construction requirements to protect oil and gas reserves from contamination by fresh water. Thousands of wells were drilled in such a way as to protect the oil, but no thought was given to the possibility that the groundwater itself might need protection until many drinking-water wells near the oil well sites began to produce unpotable, oil-contaminated water. The reason for this contamination was that groundwater is usually found in porous and permeable geologic formations near the earth's surface, whereas petroleum and unpotable saline water reservoirs are generally found in similar formations but at greater depths. Drilling a well creates a conduit connecting all the formations that it has penetrated. Consequently, without appropriate safeguards, wells that penetrate both groundwater and oil or saline water formations inevitably contaminate the groundwater. Initial attempts to prevent this contamination consisted of sealing off the groundwater formations with some form of protective barrier to prevent the oil flowing up the well from entering or mixing with the natural groundwater reservoir. This method, which is still in use today, initially involved using hollow trees to seal off the groundwater formations; now, however, large metal pipe casings, set in place with cement, are used. Regulations currently govern the kinds of casing and cement that can be used in these practices; however, the hazards of insufficient knowledge persist. For example, the long-term stability of this way of protecting groundwater is unknown. The protective barrier may fail due to corrosion of the casing by certain fluids flowing up the well, or because of dissolution of the cement by these fluids. The effects of groundwater bacteria, traffic vibrations, and changing groundwater chemistry are likewise unassessed. Further, there is no guarantee that wells drilled in compliance with existing regulations will not expose a need for research in additional areas: on the west coast of North America, a major disaster recently occurred because a well's location was based on a poor understanding of the area's subsurface geology. Because the well was drilled in a channel accessing the ocean, not only was the area's groundwater completely contaminated, but widespread coastal contamination also occurred, prompting international concern over oil exploration and initiating further attempts to refine regulations.

200406_1-RC_1_2

The passage states which one of the following about underground oil reservoirs?

The accumulation of scientific knowledge regarding the environmental impact of oil well drilling in North America has tended to lag behind the actual drilling of oil wells. Most attempts to regulate the industry have relied on hindsight: the need for regulation becomes apparent only after undesirable events occur. The problems associated with oil wells' potential contamination of groundwater—fresh water within the earth that supplies wells and springs—provide a case in point. When commercial drilling for oil began in North America in the mid-nineteenth century, regulations reflected the industry's concern for the purity of the wells' oil. In 1893, for example, regulations were enacted specifying well construction requirements to protect oil and gas reserves from contamination by fresh water. Thousands of wells were drilled in such a way as to protect the oil, but no thought was given to the possibility that the groundwater itself might need protection until many drinking-water wells near the oil well sites began to produce unpotable, oil-contaminated water. The reason for this contamination was that groundwater is usually found in porous and permeable geologic formations near the earth's surface, whereas petroleum and unpotable saline water reservoirs are generally found in similar formations but at greater depths. Drilling a well creates a conduit connecting all the formations that it has penetrated. Consequently, without appropriate safeguards, wells that penetrate both groundwater and oil or saline water formations inevitably contaminate the groundwater. Initial attempts to prevent this contamination consisted of sealing off the groundwater formations with some form of protective barrier to prevent the oil flowing up the well from entering or mixing with the natural groundwater reservoir. This method, which is still in use today, initially involved using hollow trees to seal off the groundwater formations; now, however, large metal pipe casings, set in place with cement, are used. Regulations currently govern the kinds of casing and cement that can be used in these practices; however, the hazards of insufficient knowledge persist. For example, the long-term stability of this way of protecting groundwater is unknown. The protective barrier may fail due to corrosion of the casing by certain fluids flowing up the well, or because of dissolution of the cement by these fluids. The effects of groundwater bacteria, traffic vibrations, and changing groundwater chemistry are likewise unassessed. Further, there is no guarantee that wells drilled in compliance with existing regulations will not expose a need for research in additional areas: on the west coast of North America, a major disaster recently occurred because a well's location was based on a poor understanding of the area's subsurface geology. Because the well was drilled in a channel accessing the ocean, not only was the area's groundwater completely contaminated, but widespread coastal contamination also occurred, prompting international concern over oil exploration and initiating further attempts to refine regulations.

200406_1-RC_1_3

The author's attitude regarding oil well drilling regulations can most accurately be described as

The accumulation of scientific knowledge regarding the environmental impact of oil well drilling in North America has tended to lag behind the actual drilling of oil wells. Most attempts to regulate the industry have relied on hindsight: the need for regulation becomes apparent only after undesirable events occur. The problems associated with oil wells' potential contamination of groundwater—fresh water within the earth that supplies wells and springs—provide a case in point. When commercial drilling for oil began in North America in the mid-nineteenth century, regulations reflected the industry's concern for the purity of the wells' oil. In 1893, for example, regulations were enacted specifying well construction requirements to protect oil and gas reserves from contamination by fresh water. Thousands of wells were drilled in such a way as to protect the oil, but no thought was given to the possibility that the groundwater itself might need protection until many drinking-water wells near the oil well sites began to produce unpotable, oil-contaminated water. The reason for this contamination was that groundwater is usually found in porous and permeable geologic formations near the earth's surface, whereas petroleum and unpotable saline water reservoirs are generally found in similar formations but at greater depths. Drilling a well creates a conduit connecting all the formations that it has penetrated. Consequently, without appropriate safeguards, wells that penetrate both groundwater and oil or saline water formations inevitably contaminate the groundwater. Initial attempts to prevent this contamination consisted of sealing off the groundwater formations with some form of protective barrier to prevent the oil flowing up the well from entering or mixing with the natural groundwater reservoir. This method, which is still in use today, initially involved using hollow trees to seal off the groundwater formations; now, however, large metal pipe casings, set in place with cement, are used. Regulations currently govern the kinds of casing and cement that can be used in these practices; however, the hazards of insufficient knowledge persist. For example, the long-term stability of this way of protecting groundwater is unknown. The protective barrier may fail due to corrosion of the casing by certain fluids flowing up the well, or because of dissolution of the cement by these fluids. The effects of groundwater bacteria, traffic vibrations, and changing groundwater chemistry are likewise unassessed. Further, there is no guarantee that wells drilled in compliance with existing regulations will not expose a need for research in additional areas: on the west coast of North America, a major disaster recently occurred because a well's location was based on a poor understanding of the area's subsurface geology. Because the well was drilled in a channel accessing the ocean, not only was the area's groundwater completely contaminated, but widespread coastal contamination also occurred, prompting international concern over oil exploration and initiating further attempts to refine regulations.

200406_1-RC_1_4

The author uses the phrase "the hazards of insufficient knowledge" (line 44) primarily in order to refer to the risks resulting from

The accumulation of scientific knowledge regarding the environmental impact of oil well drilling in North America has tended to lag behind the actual drilling of oil wells. Most attempts to regulate the industry have relied on hindsight: the need for regulation becomes apparent only after undesirable events occur. The problems associated with oil wells' potential contamination of groundwater—fresh water within the earth that supplies wells and springs—provide a case in point. When commercial drilling for oil began in North America in the mid-nineteenth century, regulations reflected the industry's concern for the purity of the wells' oil. In 1893, for example, regulations were enacted specifying well construction requirements to protect oil and gas reserves from contamination by fresh water. Thousands of wells were drilled in such a way as to protect the oil, but no thought was given to the possibility that the groundwater itself might need protection until many drinking-water wells near the oil well sites began to produce unpotable, oil-contaminated water. The reason for this contamination was that groundwater is usually found in porous and permeable geologic formations near the earth's surface, whereas petroleum and unpotable saline water reservoirs are generally found in similar formations but at greater depths. Drilling a well creates a conduit connecting all the formations that it has penetrated. Consequently, without appropriate safeguards, wells that penetrate both groundwater and oil or saline water formations inevitably contaminate the groundwater. Initial attempts to prevent this contamination consisted of sealing off the groundwater formations with some form of protective barrier to prevent the oil flowing up the well from entering or mixing with the natural groundwater reservoir. This method, which is still in use today, initially involved using hollow trees to seal off the groundwater formations; now, however, large metal pipe casings, set in place with cement, are used. Regulations currently govern the kinds of casing and cement that can be used in these practices; however, the hazards of insufficient knowledge persist. For example, the long-term stability of this way of protecting groundwater is unknown. The protective barrier may fail due to corrosion of the casing by certain fluids flowing up the well, or because of dissolution of the cement by these fluids. The effects of groundwater bacteria, traffic vibrations, and changing groundwater chemistry are likewise unassessed. Further, there is no guarantee that wells drilled in compliance with existing regulations will not expose a need for research in additional areas: on the west coast of North America, a major disaster recently occurred because a well's location was based on a poor understanding of the area's subsurface geology. Because the well was drilled in a channel accessing the ocean, not only was the area's groundwater completely contaminated, but widespread coastal contamination also occurred, prompting international concern over oil exploration and initiating further attempts to refine regulations.

200406_1-RC_1_5

Based on the information in the passage, if a prospective oil well drilled near a large city encounters a large groundwater formation and a small saline water formation, but no oil, which one of the following statements is most likely to be true?

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_6

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

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_7

In lines 56–59, the author mentions the family members' explanation of their use of Spanish primarily in order to

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_8

Which one of the following questions is NOT characterized by the passage as a question to which linguists sought answers in their code-switching studies involving high school students?

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_9

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

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_10

Based on the passage, which one of the following is best explained as rhetorically determined code-switching?

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_11

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

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_12

Which one of the following does the passage offer as evidence that code-switching cannot be entirely explained by situational factors?

In many bilingual communities of Puerto Rican Americans living in the mainland United States, people use both English and Spanish in a single conversation, alternating between them smoothly and frequently even within the same sentence. This practice—called code-switching—is common in bilingual populations. While there are some cases that cannot currently be explained, in the vast majority of cases subtle factors, either situational or rhetorical, explain the use of code-switching. Linguists say that most code-switching among Puerto Rican Americans is sensitive to the social contexts, which researchers refer to as domains, in which conversations take place. The main conversational factors influencing the occurrence of code-switching are setting, participants, and topic. When these go together naturally they are said to be congruent; a set of three such congruent factors constitutes a conversational situation. Linguists studying the choice between Spanish and English among a group of Puerto Rican American high school students classified their conversational situations into five domains: family, friendship, religion, education, and employment. To test the effects of these domains on code-switching, researchers developed a list of hypothetical situations made up of two of the three congruent factors, or of two incongruent factors, approximating an interaction in one of the five domains. The researchers asked the students to determine the third factor and to choose which mix of language—on a continuum from all English to all Spanish—they would use in that situation. When given two congruent factors, the students easily supplied the third congruent factor and strongly agreed among themselves about which mix they would use. For instance, for the factors of participants "parent and child" and the topic "how to be a good son or daughter," the congruent setting chosen was "home" and the language mix chosen was Spanish only. In contrast, incongruent factors such as the participants "priest and parishioner" and the setting "beach" yielded less agreement on the third factor of topic and on language choice. But situational factors do not account for all code-switching; it occurs even when the domain would lead one not to expect it. In these cases, one language tends to be the primary one, while the other is used only sparingly to achieve certain rhetorical effects. Often the switches are so subtle that the speakers themselves are not aware of them. This was the case with a study of a family of Puerto Rican Americans in another community. Family members believed they used only English at home, but their taped conversations occasionally contained some Spanish, with no change in situational factors. When asked what the presence of Spanish signified, they commented that it was used to express certain attitudes such as intimacy or humor more emphatically.

200406_1-RC_2_13

Which one of the following, if true, would most cast doubt on the author's interpretation of the study involving the family discussed in the third paragraph?

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_14

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's attitude toward formalism as expressed in the passage?

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_15

Which one of the following persons displays an approach that most strongly suggests sympathy with the principles of reader-response theory?

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_16

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

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_17

The passage states that reader-response theory legitimizes which one of the following?

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_18

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's purpose in referring to literature of the past as being "unfairly burdened" (line 51) in some cases?

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_19

Which one of the following, if true, most weakens the author's argument concerning reader-response theory?

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_20

The author's reference to "various signs and symbols" (line 33) functions primarily to

Reader-response theory, a type of literary theory that arose in reaction to formalist literary criticism, has endeavored to shift the emphasis in the interpretation of literature from the text itself to the contributions of readers to the meaning of a text. According to literary critics who endorse reader-response theory, the literary text alone renders no meaning; it acquires meaning only when encountered by individual readers, who always bring varying presuppositions and ways of reading to bear on the text, giving rise to the possibility—even probability— of varying interpretations. This brand of criticism has met opposition from the formalists, who study the text alone and argue that reader-response theory can encourage and even validate fragmented views of a work, rather than the unified view acquired by examining only the content of the text. However, since no theory has a monopoly on divining meaning from a text, the formalists' view appears unnecessarily narrow. The proponents of formalism argue that their approach is firmly grounded in rational, objective principles, while reader-response theory lacks standards and verges on absolute subjectivity. After all, these proponents argue, no author can create a work that is packed with countless meanings. The meaning of a work of literature, the formalists would argue, may be obscure and somewhat arcane; yet, however hidden it may be, the author's intended meaning is legible within the work, and it is the critic's responsibility to search closely for this meaning. However, while a literary work is indeed encoded in various signs and symbols that must be translated for the work to be understood and appreciated, it is not a map. Any complicated literary work will invariably raise more questions than it answers. What is needed is a method that enables the critic to discern and make use of the rich stock of meanings created in encounters between texts and readers. Emphasizing the varied presuppositions and perceptions that readers bring to the interpretations of a text can uncover hitherto unnoticed dimensions of the text. In fact, many important works have received varying interpretations throughout their existence, suggesting that reader-based interpretations similar to those described by reader-response theory had been operating long before the theory's principles were articulated. And while in some cases critics' textual interpretations based on reader-response theory have unfairly burdened literature of the past with contemporary ideologies, legitimate additional insights and understandings continue to emerge years after an ostensibly definitive interpretation of a major work has been articulated. By regarding a reader's personal interpretation of literary works as not only valid but also useful in understanding the works, reader-response theory legitimizes a wide range of perspectives on these works and thereby reinforces the notion of them as fluid and lively forms of discourse that can continue to support new interpretations long after their original composition.

200406_1-RC_3_21

Which one of the following can most reasonably be inferred from the information in the passage?

Faculty researchers, particularly in scientific, engineering, and medical programs, often produce scientific discoveries and invent products or processes that have potential commercial value. Many institutions have invested heavily in the administrative infrastructure to develop and exploit these discoveries, and they expect to prosper both by an increased level of research support and by the royalties from licensing those discoveries having patentable commercial applications. However, although faculty themselves are unlikely to become entrepreneurs, an increasing number of highly valued researchers will be sought and sponsored by research corporations or have consulting contracts with commercial firms. One study of such entrepreneurship concluded that "if universities do not provide the flexibility needed to venture into business, faculty will be tempted to go to those institutions that are responsive to their commercialized desires." There is therefore a need to consider the different intellectual property policies that govern the commercial exploitation of faculty inventions in order to determine which would provide the appropriate level of flexibility. In a recent study of faculty rights, Patricia Chew has suggested a fourfold classification of institutional policies. A supramaximalist institution stakes out the broadest claim possible, asserting ownership not only of all intellectual property produced by faculty in the course of their employment while using university resources, but also for any inventions or patent rights from faculty activities, even those involving research sponsored by nonuniversity funders. A maximalist institution allows faculty ownership of inventions that do not arise either "in the course of the faculty's employment [or] from the faculty's use of university resources." This approach, although not as all-encompassing as that of the supramaximalist university, can affect virtually all of a faculty member's intellectual production. A resource-provider institution asserts a claim to faculty's intellectual product in those cases where "significant use" of university time and facilities is employed. Of course, what constitutes significant use of resources is a matter of institutional judgment. As Chew notes, in these policies "faculty rights, including the sharing of royalties, are the result of university benevolence and generosity. [However, this] presumption is contrary to the common law, which provides that faculty own their inventions." Others have pointed to this anomaly and, indeed, to the uncertain legal and historical basis upon which the ownership of intellectual property rests. Although these issues remain unsettled, and though universities may be overreaching due to faculty's limited knowledge of their rights, most major institutions behave in the ways that maximize university ownership and profit participation. But there is a fourth way, one that seems to be free from these particular issues. Faculty-oriented institutions assume that researchers own their own intellectual products and the rights to exploit them commercially, except in the development of public health inventions or if there is previously specified "substantial university involvement." At these institutions industry practice is effectively reversed, with the university benefiting in far fewer circumstances.

200406_1-RC_4_22

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

Faculty researchers, particularly in scientific, engineering, and medical programs, often produce scientific discoveries and invent products or processes that have potential commercial value. Many institutions have invested heavily in the administrative infrastructure to develop and exploit these discoveries, and they expect to prosper both by an increased level of research support and by the royalties from licensing those discoveries having patentable commercial applications. However, although faculty themselves are unlikely to become entrepreneurs, an increasing number of highly valued researchers will be sought and sponsored by research corporations or have consulting contracts with commercial firms. One study of such entrepreneurship concluded that "if universities do not provide the flexibility needed to venture into business, faculty will be tempted to go to those institutions that are responsive to their commercialized desires." There is therefore a need to consider the different intellectual property policies that govern the commercial exploitation of faculty inventions in order to determine which would provide the appropriate level of flexibility. In a recent study of faculty rights, Patricia Chew has suggested a fourfold classification of institutional policies. A supramaximalist institution stakes out the broadest claim possible, asserting ownership not only of all intellectual property produced by faculty in the course of their employment while using university resources, but also for any inventions or patent rights from faculty activities, even those involving research sponsored by nonuniversity funders. A maximalist institution allows faculty ownership of inventions that do not arise either "in the course of the faculty's employment [or] from the faculty's use of university resources." This approach, although not as all-encompassing as that of the supramaximalist university, can affect virtually all of a faculty member's intellectual production. A resource-provider institution asserts a claim to faculty's intellectual product in those cases where "significant use" of university time and facilities is employed. Of course, what constitutes significant use of resources is a matter of institutional judgment. As Chew notes, in these policies "faculty rights, including the sharing of royalties, are the result of university benevolence and generosity. [However, this] presumption is contrary to the common law, which provides that faculty own their inventions." Others have pointed to this anomaly and, indeed, to the uncertain legal and historical basis upon which the ownership of intellectual property rests. Although these issues remain unsettled, and though universities may be overreaching due to faculty's limited knowledge of their rights, most major institutions behave in the ways that maximize university ownership and profit participation. But there is a fourth way, one that seems to be free from these particular issues. Faculty-oriented institutions assume that researchers own their own intellectual products and the rights to exploit them commercially, except in the development of public health inventions or if there is previously specified "substantial university involvement." At these institutions industry practice is effectively reversed, with the university benefiting in far fewer circumstances.

200406_1-RC_4_23

Which one of the following most accurately characterizes the author's view regarding the institutional intellectual property policies of most universities?

Faculty researchers, particularly in scientific, engineering, and medical programs, often produce scientific discoveries and invent products or processes that have potential commercial value. Many institutions have invested heavily in the administrative infrastructure to develop and exploit these discoveries, and they expect to prosper both by an increased level of research support and by the royalties from licensing those discoveries having patentable commercial applications. However, although faculty themselves are unlikely to become entrepreneurs, an increasing number of highly valued researchers will be sought and sponsored by research corporations or have consulting contracts with commercial firms. One study of such entrepreneurship concluded that "if universities do not provide the flexibility needed to venture into business, faculty will be tempted to go to those institutions that are responsive to their commercialized desires." There is therefore a need to consider the different intellectual property policies that govern the commercial exploitation of faculty inventions in order to determine which would provide the appropriate level of flexibility. In a recent study of faculty rights, Patricia Chew has suggested a fourfold classification of institutional policies. A supramaximalist institution stakes out the broadest claim possible, asserting ownership not only of all intellectual property produced by faculty in the course of their employment while using university resources, but also for any inventions or patent rights from faculty activities, even those involving research sponsored by nonuniversity funders. A maximalist institution allows faculty ownership of inventions that do not arise either "in the course of the faculty's employment [or] from the faculty's use of university resources." This approach, although not as all-encompassing as that of the supramaximalist university, can affect virtually all of a faculty member's intellectual production. A resource-provider institution asserts a claim to faculty's intellectual product in those cases where "significant use" of university time and facilities is employed. Of course, what constitutes significant use of resources is a matter of institutional judgment. As Chew notes, in these policies "faculty rights, including the sharing of royalties, are the result of university benevolence and generosity. [However, this] presumption is contrary to the common law, which provides that faculty own their inventions." Others have pointed to this anomaly and, indeed, to the uncertain legal and historical basis upon which the ownership of intellectual property rests. Although these issues remain unsettled, and though universities may be overreaching due to faculty's limited knowledge of their rights, most major institutions behave in the ways that maximize university ownership and profit participation. But there is a fourth way, one that seems to be free from these particular issues. Faculty-oriented institutions assume that researchers own their own intellectual products and the rights to exploit them commercially, except in the development of public health inventions or if there is previously specified "substantial university involvement." At these institutions industry practice is effectively reversed, with the university benefiting in far fewer circumstances.

200406_1-RC_4_24

Which one of the following institutions would NOT be covered by the fourfold classification proposed by Chew?

Faculty researchers, particularly in scientific, engineering, and medical programs, often produce scientific discoveries and invent products or processes that have potential commercial value. Many institutions have invested heavily in the administrative infrastructure to develop and exploit these discoveries, and they expect to prosper both by an increased level of research support and by the royalties from licensing those discoveries having patentable commercial applications. However, although faculty themselves are unlikely to become entrepreneurs, an increasing number of highly valued researchers will be sought and sponsored by research corporations or have consulting contracts with commercial firms. One study of such entrepreneurship concluded that "if universities do not provide the flexibility needed to venture into business, faculty will be tempted to go to those institutions that are responsive to their commercialized desires." There is therefore a need to consider the different intellectual property policies that govern the commercial exploitation of faculty inventions in order to determine which would provide the appropriate level of flexibility. In a recent study of faculty rights, Patricia Chew has suggested a fourfold classification of institutional policies. A supramaximalist institution stakes out the broadest claim possible, asserting ownership not only of all intellectual property produced by faculty in the course of their employment while using university resources, but also for any inventions or patent rights from faculty activities, even those involving research sponsored by nonuniversity funders. A maximalist institution allows faculty ownership of inventions that do not arise either "in the course of the faculty's employment [or] from the faculty's use of university resources." This approach, although not as all-encompassing as that of the supramaximalist university, can affect virtually all of a faculty member's intellectual production. A resource-provider institution asserts a claim to faculty's intellectual product in those cases where "significant use" of university time and facilities is employed. Of course, what constitutes significant use of resources is a matter of institutional judgment. As Chew notes, in these policies "faculty rights, including the sharing of royalties, are the result of university benevolence and generosity. [However, this] presumption is contrary to the common law, which provides that faculty own their inventions." Others have pointed to this anomaly and, indeed, to the uncertain legal and historical basis upon which the ownership of intellectual property rests. Although these issues remain unsettled, and though universities may be overreaching due to faculty's limited knowledge of their rights, most major institutions behave in the ways that maximize university ownership and profit participation. But there is a fourth way, one that seems to be free from these particular issues. Faculty-oriented institutions assume that researchers own their own intellectual products and the rights to exploit them commercially, except in the development of public health inventions or if there is previously specified "substantial university involvement." At these institutions industry practice is effectively reversed, with the university benefiting in far fewer circumstances.

200406_1-RC_4_25

The passage suggests that the type of institution in which employees are likely to have the most uncertainty about who owns their intellectual products is the

Faculty researchers, particularly in scientific, engineering, and medical programs, often produce scientific discoveries and invent products or processes that have potential commercial value. Many institutions have invested heavily in the administrative infrastructure to develop and exploit these discoveries, and they expect to prosper both by an increased level of research support and by the royalties from licensing those discoveries having patentable commercial applications. However, although faculty themselves are unlikely to become entrepreneurs, an increasing number of highly valued researchers will be sought and sponsored by research corporations or have consulting contracts with commercial firms. One study of such entrepreneurship concluded that "if universities do not provide the flexibility needed to venture into business, faculty will be tempted to go to those institutions that are responsive to their commercialized desires." There is therefore a need to consider the different intellectual property policies that govern the commercial exploitation of faculty inventions in order to determine which would provide the appropriate level of flexibility. In a recent study of faculty rights, Patricia Chew has suggested a fourfold classification of institutional policies. A supramaximalist institution stakes out the broadest claim possible, asserting ownership not only of all intellectual property produced by faculty in the course of their employment while using university resources, but also for any inventions or patent rights from faculty activities, even those involving research sponsored by nonuniversity funders. A maximalist institution allows faculty ownership of inventions that do not arise either "in the course of the faculty's employment [or] from the faculty's use of university resources." This approach, although not as all-encompassing as that of the supramaximalist university, can affect virtually all of a faculty member's intellectual production. A resource-provider institution asserts a claim to faculty's intellectual product in those cases where "significant use" of university time and facilities is employed. Of course, what constitutes significant use of resources is a matter of institutional judgment. As Chew notes, in these policies "faculty rights, including the sharing of royalties, are the result of university benevolence and generosity. [However, this] presumption is contrary to the common law, which provides that faculty own their inventions." Others have pointed to this anomaly and, indeed, to the uncertain legal and historical basis upon which the ownership of intellectual property rests. Although these issues remain unsettled, and though universities may be overreaching due to faculty's limited knowledge of their rights, most major institutions behave in the ways that maximize university ownership and profit participation. But there is a fourth way, one that seems to be free from these particular issues. Faculty-oriented institutions assume that researchers own their own intellectual products and the rights to exploit them commercially, except in the development of public health inventions or if there is previously specified "substantial university involvement." At these institutions industry practice is effectively reversed, with the university benefiting in far fewer circumstances.

200406_1-RC_4_26

According to the passage, what distinguishes a resource-provider institution from the other types of institutions identified by Chew is its

Faculty researchers, particularly in scientific, engineering, and medical programs, often produce scientific discoveries and invent products or processes that have potential commercial value. Many institutions have invested heavily in the administrative infrastructure to develop and exploit these discoveries, and they expect to prosper both by an increased level of research support and by the royalties from licensing those discoveries having patentable commercial applications. However, although faculty themselves are unlikely to become entrepreneurs, an increasing number of highly valued researchers will be sought and sponsored by research corporations or have consulting contracts with commercial firms. One study of such entrepreneurship concluded that "if universities do not provide the flexibility needed to venture into business, faculty will be tempted to go to those institutions that are responsive to their commercialized desires." There is therefore a need to consider the different intellectual property policies that govern the commercial exploitation of faculty inventions in order to determine which would provide the appropriate level of flexibility. In a recent study of faculty rights, Patricia Chew has suggested a fourfold classification of institutional policies. A supramaximalist institution stakes out the broadest claim possible, asserting ownership not only of all intellectual property produced by faculty in the course of their employment while using university resources, but also for any inventions or patent rights from faculty activities, even those involving research sponsored by nonuniversity funders. A maximalist institution allows faculty ownership of inventions that do not arise either "in the course of the faculty's employment [or] from the faculty's use of university resources." This approach, although not as all-encompassing as that of the supramaximalist university, can affect virtually all of a faculty member's intellectual production. A resource-provider institution asserts a claim to faculty's intellectual product in those cases where "significant use" of university time and facilities is employed. Of course, what constitutes significant use of resources is a matter of institutional judgment. As Chew notes, in these policies "faculty rights, including the sharing of royalties, are the result of university benevolence and generosity. [However, this] presumption is contrary to the common law, which provides that faculty own their inventions." Others have pointed to this anomaly and, indeed, to the uncertain legal and historical basis upon which the ownership of intellectual property rests. Although these issues remain unsettled, and though universities may be overreaching due to faculty's limited knowledge of their rights, most major institutions behave in the ways that maximize university ownership and profit participation. But there is a fourth way, one that seems to be free from these particular issues. Faculty-oriented institutions assume that researchers own their own intellectual products and the rights to exploit them commercially, except in the development of public health inventions or if there is previously specified "substantial university involvement." At these institutions industry practice is effectively reversed, with the university benefiting in far fewer circumstances.

200406_1-RC_4_27

The author of the passage most likely quotes one study of entrepreneurship in lines 16–19 primarily in order to

Faculty researchers, particularly in scientific, engineering, and medical programs, often produce scientific discoveries and invent products or processes that have potential commercial value. Many institutions have invested heavily in the administrative infrastructure to develop and exploit these discoveries, and they expect to prosper both by an increased level of research support and by the royalties from licensing those discoveries having patentable commercial applications. However, although faculty themselves are unlikely to become entrepreneurs, an increasing number of highly valued researchers will be sought and sponsored by research corporations or have consulting contracts with commercial firms. One study of such entrepreneurship concluded that "if universities do not provide the flexibility needed to venture into business, faculty will be tempted to go to those institutions that are responsive to their commercialized desires." There is therefore a need to consider the different intellectual property policies that govern the commercial exploitation of faculty inventions in order to determine which would provide the appropriate level of flexibility. In a recent study of faculty rights, Patricia Chew has suggested a fourfold classification of institutional policies. A supramaximalist institution stakes out the broadest claim possible, asserting ownership not only of all intellectual property produced by faculty in the course of their employment while using university resources, but also for any inventions or patent rights from faculty activities, even those involving research sponsored by nonuniversity funders. A maximalist institution allows faculty ownership of inventions that do not arise either "in the course of the faculty's employment [or] from the faculty's use of university resources." This approach, although not as all-encompassing as that of the supramaximalist university, can affect virtually all of a faculty member's intellectual production. A resource-provider institution asserts a claim to faculty's intellectual product in those cases where "significant use" of university time and facilities is employed. Of course, what constitutes significant use of resources is a matter of institutional judgment. As Chew notes, in these policies "faculty rights, including the sharing of royalties, are the result of university benevolence and generosity. [However, this] presumption is contrary to the common law, which provides that faculty own their inventions." Others have pointed to this anomaly and, indeed, to the uncertain legal and historical basis upon which the ownership of intellectual property rests. Although these issues remain unsettled, and though universities may be overreaching due to faculty's limited knowledge of their rights, most major institutions behave in the ways that maximize university ownership and profit participation. But there is a fourth way, one that seems to be free from these particular issues. Faculty-oriented institutions assume that researchers own their own intellectual products and the rights to exploit them commercially, except in the development of public health inventions or if there is previously specified "substantial university involvement." At these institutions industry practice is effectively reversed, with the university benefiting in far fewer circumstances.

200406_1-RC_4_28

The passage suggests each of the following EXCEPT:

The Canadian Auto Workers' (CAW) Legal Services Plan, designed to give active and retired autoworkers and their families access to totally prepaid or partially reimbursed legal services, has been in operation since late 1985. Plan members have the option of using either the plan's staff lawyers, whose services are fully covered by the cost of membership in the plan, or an outside lawyer. Outside lawyers, in turn, can either sign up with the plan as a "cooperating lawyer" and accept the CAW's fee schedule as payment in full, or they can charge a higher fee and collect the balance from the client. Autoworkers appear to have embraced the notion of prepaid legal services: 45 percent of eligible union members were enrolled in the plan by 1988. Moreover, the idea of prepaid legal services has been spreading in Canada. A department store is even offering a plan to holders of its credit card. While many plan members seem to be happy to get reduced-cost legal help, many lawyers are concerned about the plan's effect on their profession, especially its impact on prices for legal services. Some point out that even though most lawyers have not joined the plan as cooperating lawyers, legal fees in the cities in which the CAW plan operates have been depressed, in some cases to an unprofitable level. The directors of the plan, however, claim that both clients and lawyers benefit from their arrangement. For while the clients get ready access to reduced-price services, lawyers get professional contact with people who would not otherwise be using legal services, which helps generate even more business for their firms. Experience shows, the directors say, that if people are referred to a firm and receive excellent service, the firm will get three to four other referrals who are not plan subscribers and who would therefore pay the firm's standard rate. But it is unlikely that increased use of such plans will result in long-term client satisfaction or in a substantial increase in profits for law firms. Since lawyers with established reputations and client bases can benefit little, if at all, from participation, the plans function largely as marketing devices for lawyers who have yet to establish themselves. While many of these lawyers are no doubt very able and conscientious, they will tend to have less expertise and to provide less satisfaction to clients. At the same time, the downward pressure on fees will mean that the full-fee referrals that proponents say will come through plan participation may not make up for a firm's investment in providing services at low plan rates. And since lowered fees provide little incentive for lawyers to devote more than minimal effort to cases, a "volume discount" approach toward the practice of law will mean less time devoted to complex cases and a general lowering of quality for clients.

200410_1-RC_1_1

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

The Canadian Auto Workers' (CAW) Legal Services Plan, designed to give active and retired autoworkers and their families access to totally prepaid or partially reimbursed legal services, has been in operation since late 1985. Plan members have the option of using either the plan's staff lawyers, whose services are fully covered by the cost of membership in the plan, or an outside lawyer. Outside lawyers, in turn, can either sign up with the plan as a "cooperating lawyer" and accept the CAW's fee schedule as payment in full, or they can charge a higher fee and collect the balance from the client. Autoworkers appear to have embraced the notion of prepaid legal services: 45 percent of eligible union members were enrolled in the plan by 1988. Moreover, the idea of prepaid legal services has been spreading in Canada. A department store is even offering a plan to holders of its credit card. While many plan members seem to be happy to get reduced-cost legal help, many lawyers are concerned about the plan's effect on their profession, especially its impact on prices for legal services. Some point out that even though most lawyers have not joined the plan as cooperating lawyers, legal fees in the cities in which the CAW plan operates have been depressed, in some cases to an unprofitable level. The directors of the plan, however, claim that both clients and lawyers benefit from their arrangement. For while the clients get ready access to reduced-price services, lawyers get professional contact with people who would not otherwise be using legal services, which helps generate even more business for their firms. Experience shows, the directors say, that if people are referred to a firm and receive excellent service, the firm will get three to four other referrals who are not plan subscribers and who would therefore pay the firm's standard rate. But it is unlikely that increased use of such plans will result in long-term client satisfaction or in a substantial increase in profits for law firms. Since lawyers with established reputations and client bases can benefit little, if at all, from participation, the plans function largely as marketing devices for lawyers who have yet to establish themselves. While many of these lawyers are no doubt very able and conscientious, they will tend to have less expertise and to provide less satisfaction to clients. At the same time, the downward pressure on fees will mean that the full-fee referrals that proponents say will come through plan participation may not make up for a firm's investment in providing services at low plan rates. And since lowered fees provide little incentive for lawyers to devote more than minimal effort to cases, a "volume discount" approach toward the practice of law will mean less time devoted to complex cases and a general lowering of quality for clients.

200410_1-RC_1_2

The primary purpose of the passage is to

The Canadian Auto Workers' (CAW) Legal Services Plan, designed to give active and retired autoworkers and their families access to totally prepaid or partially reimbursed legal services, has been in operation since late 1985. Plan members have the option of using either the plan's staff lawyers, whose services are fully covered by the cost of membership in the plan, or an outside lawyer. Outside lawyers, in turn, can either sign up with the plan as a "cooperating lawyer" and accept the CAW's fee schedule as payment in full, or they can charge a higher fee and collect the balance from the client. Autoworkers appear to have embraced the notion of prepaid legal services: 45 percent of eligible union members were enrolled in the plan by 1988. Moreover, the idea of prepaid legal services has been spreading in Canada. A department store is even offering a plan to holders of its credit card. While many plan members seem to be happy to get reduced-cost legal help, many lawyers are concerned about the plan's effect on their profession, especially its impact on prices for legal services. Some point out that even though most lawyers have not joined the plan as cooperating lawyers, legal fees in the cities in which the CAW plan operates have been depressed, in some cases to an unprofitable level. The directors of the plan, however, claim that both clients and lawyers benefit from their arrangement. For while the clients get ready access to reduced-price services, lawyers get professional contact with people who would not otherwise be using legal services, which helps generate even more business for their firms. Experience shows, the directors say, that if people are referred to a firm and receive excellent service, the firm will get three to four other referrals who are not plan subscribers and who would therefore pay the firm's standard rate. But it is unlikely that increased use of such plans will result in long-term client satisfaction or in a substantial increase in profits for law firms. Since lawyers with established reputations and client bases can benefit little, if at all, from participation, the plans function largely as marketing devices for lawyers who have yet to establish themselves. While many of these lawyers are no doubt very able and conscientious, they will tend to have less expertise and to provide less satisfaction to clients. At the same time, the downward pressure on fees will mean that the full-fee referrals that proponents say will come through plan participation may not make up for a firm's investment in providing services at low plan rates. And since lowered fees provide little incentive for lawyers to devote more than minimal effort to cases, a "volume discount" approach toward the practice of law will mean less time devoted to complex cases and a general lowering of quality for clients.

200410_1-RC_1_3

Which one of the following does the author predict will be a consequence of increased use of legal plans?

The Canadian Auto Workers' (CAW) Legal Services Plan, designed to give active and retired autoworkers and their families access to totally prepaid or partially reimbursed legal services, has been in operation since late 1985. Plan members have the option of using either the plan's staff lawyers, whose services are fully covered by the cost of membership in the plan, or an outside lawyer. Outside lawyers, in turn, can either sign up with the plan as a "cooperating lawyer" and accept the CAW's fee schedule as payment in full, or they can charge a higher fee and collect the balance from the client. Autoworkers appear to have embraced the notion of prepaid legal services: 45 percent of eligible union members were enrolled in the plan by 1988. Moreover, the idea of prepaid legal services has been spreading in Canada. A department store is even offering a plan to holders of its credit card. While many plan members seem to be happy to get reduced-cost legal help, many lawyers are concerned about the plan's effect on their profession, especially its impact on prices for legal services. Some point out that even though most lawyers have not joined the plan as cooperating lawyers, legal fees in the cities in which the CAW plan operates have been depressed, in some cases to an unprofitable level. The directors of the plan, however, claim that both clients and lawyers benefit from their arrangement. For while the clients get ready access to reduced-price services, lawyers get professional contact with people who would not otherwise be using legal services, which helps generate even more business for their firms. Experience shows, the directors say, that if people are referred to a firm and receive excellent service, the firm will get three to four other referrals who are not plan subscribers and who would therefore pay the firm's standard rate. But it is unlikely that increased use of such plans will result in long-term client satisfaction or in a substantial increase in profits for law firms. Since lawyers with established reputations and client bases can benefit little, if at all, from participation, the plans function largely as marketing devices for lawyers who have yet to establish themselves. While many of these lawyers are no doubt very able and conscientious, they will tend to have less expertise and to provide less satisfaction to clients. At the same time, the downward pressure on fees will mean that the full-fee referrals that proponents say will come through plan participation may not make up for a firm's investment in providing services at low plan rates. And since lowered fees provide little incentive for lawyers to devote more than minimal effort to cases, a "volume discount" approach toward the practice of law will mean less time devoted to complex cases and a general lowering of quality for clients.

200410_1-RC_1_4

Which one of the following sequences most accurately and completely corresponds to the presentation of the material in the passage?

The Canadian Auto Workers' (CAW) Legal Services Plan, designed to give active and retired autoworkers and their families access to totally prepaid or partially reimbursed legal services, has been in operation since late 1985. Plan members have the option of using either the plan's staff lawyers, whose services are fully covered by the cost of membership in the plan, or an outside lawyer. Outside lawyers, in turn, can either sign up with the plan as a "cooperating lawyer" and accept the CAW's fee schedule as payment in full, or they can charge a higher fee and collect the balance from the client. Autoworkers appear to have embraced the notion of prepaid legal services: 45 percent of eligible union members were enrolled in the plan by 1988. Moreover, the idea of prepaid legal services has been spreading in Canada. A department store is even offering a plan to holders of its credit card. While many plan members seem to be happy to get reduced-cost legal help, many lawyers are concerned about the plan's effect on their profession, especially its impact on prices for legal services. Some point out that even though most lawyers have not joined the plan as cooperating lawyers, legal fees in the cities in which the CAW plan operates have been depressed, in some cases to an unprofitable level. The directors of the plan, however, claim that both clients and lawyers benefit from their arrangement. For while the clients get ready access to reduced-price services, lawyers get professional contact with people who would not otherwise be using legal services, which helps generate even more business for their firms. Experience shows, the directors say, that if people are referred to a firm and receive excellent service, the firm will get three to four other referrals who are not plan subscribers and who would therefore pay the firm's standard rate. But it is unlikely that increased use of such plans will result in long-term client satisfaction or in a substantial increase in profits for law firms. Since lawyers with established reputations and client bases can benefit little, if at all, from participation, the plans function largely as marketing devices for lawyers who have yet to establish themselves. While many of these lawyers are no doubt very able and conscientious, they will tend to have less expertise and to provide less satisfaction to clients. At the same time, the downward pressure on fees will mean that the full-fee referrals that proponents say will come through plan participation may not make up for a firm's investment in providing services at low plan rates. And since lowered fees provide little incentive for lawyers to devote more than minimal effort to cases, a "volume discount" approach toward the practice of law will mean less time devoted to complex cases and a general lowering of quality for clients.

200410_1-RC_1_5

The passage most strongly suggests that, according to proponents of prepaid legal plans, cooperating lawyers benefit from taking clients at lower fees in which one of the following ways?

The Canadian Auto Workers' (CAW) Legal Services Plan, designed to give active and retired autoworkers and their families access to totally prepaid or partially reimbursed legal services, has been in operation since late 1985. Plan members have the option of using either the plan's staff lawyers, whose services are fully covered by the cost of membership in the plan, or an outside lawyer. Outside lawyers, in turn, can either sign up with the plan as a "cooperating lawyer" and accept the CAW's fee schedule as payment in full, or they can charge a higher fee and collect the balance from the client. Autoworkers appear to have embraced the notion of prepaid legal services: 45 percent of eligible union members were enrolled in the plan by 1988. Moreover, the idea of prepaid legal services has been spreading in Canada. A department store is even offering a plan to holders of its credit card. While many plan members seem to be happy to get reduced-cost legal help, many lawyers are concerned about the plan's effect on their profession, especially its impact on prices for legal services. Some point out that even though most lawyers have not joined the plan as cooperating lawyers, legal fees in the cities in which the CAW plan operates have been depressed, in some cases to an unprofitable level. The directors of the plan, however, claim that both clients and lawyers benefit from their arrangement. For while the clients get ready access to reduced-price services, lawyers get professional contact with people who would not otherwise be using legal services, which helps generate even more business for their firms. Experience shows, the directors say, that if people are referred to a firm and receive excellent service, the firm will get three to four other referrals who are not plan subscribers and who would therefore pay the firm's standard rate. But it is unlikely that increased use of such plans will result in long-term client satisfaction or in a substantial increase in profits for law firms. Since lawyers with established reputations and client bases can benefit little, if at all, from participation, the plans function largely as marketing devices for lawyers who have yet to establish themselves. While many of these lawyers are no doubt very able and conscientious, they will tend to have less expertise and to provide less satisfaction to clients. At the same time, the downward pressure on fees will mean that the full-fee referrals that proponents say will come through plan participation may not make up for a firm's investment in providing services at low plan rates. And since lowered fees provide little incentive for lawyers to devote more than minimal effort to cases, a "volume discount" approach toward the practice of law will mean less time devoted to complex cases and a general lowering of quality for clients.

200410_1-RC_1_6

According to the passage, which one of the following is true of CAW Legal Services Plan members?

The Canadian Auto Workers' (CAW) Legal Services Plan, designed to give active and retired autoworkers and their families access to totally prepaid or partially reimbursed legal services, has been in operation since late 1985. Plan members have the option of using either the plan's staff lawyers, whose services are fully covered by the cost of membership in the plan, or an outside lawyer. Outside lawyers, in turn, can either sign up with the plan as a "cooperating lawyer" and accept the CAW's fee schedule as payment in full, or they can charge a higher fee and collect the balance from the client. Autoworkers appear to have embraced the notion of prepaid legal services: 45 percent of eligible union members were enrolled in the plan by 1988. Moreover, the idea of prepaid legal services has been spreading in Canada. A department store is even offering a plan to holders of its credit card. While many plan members seem to be happy to get reduced-cost legal help, many lawyers are concerned about the plan's effect on their profession, especially its impact on prices for legal services. Some point out that even though most lawyers have not joined the plan as cooperating lawyers, legal fees in the cities in which the CAW plan operates have been depressed, in some cases to an unprofitable level. The directors of the plan, however, claim that both clients and lawyers benefit from their arrangement. For while the clients get ready access to reduced-price services, lawyers get professional contact with people who would not otherwise be using legal services, which helps generate even more business for their firms. Experience shows, the directors say, that if people are referred to a firm and receive excellent service, the firm will get three to four other referrals who are not plan subscribers and who would therefore pay the firm's standard rate. But it is unlikely that increased use of such plans will result in long-term client satisfaction or in a substantial increase in profits for law firms. Since lawyers with established reputations and client bases can benefit little, if at all, from participation, the plans function largely as marketing devices for lawyers who have yet to establish themselves. While many of these lawyers are no doubt very able and conscientious, they will tend to have less expertise and to provide less satisfaction to clients. At the same time, the downward pressure on fees will mean that the full-fee referrals that proponents say will come through plan participation may not make up for a firm's investment in providing services at low plan rates. And since lowered fees provide little incentive for lawyers to devote more than minimal effort to cases, a "volume discount" approach toward the practice of law will mean less time devoted to complex cases and a general lowering of quality for clients.

200410_1-RC_1_7

Which one of the following most accurately represents the primary function of the author's mention of marketing devices (line 43)?

In the field of historiography—the writing of history based on a critical examination of authentic primary information sources—one area that has recently attracted attention focuses on the responses of explorers and settlers to new landscapes in order to provide insights into the transformations the landscape itself has undergone as a result of settlement. In this endeavor historiographers examining the history of the Pacific Coast of the United States have traditionally depended on the records left by European American explorers of the nineteenth century who, as commissioned agents of the U.S. government, were instructed to report thoroughly their findings in writing. But in furthering this investigation some historiographers have recently recognized the need to expand their definition of what a source is. They maintain that the sources traditionally accepted as documenting the history of the Pacific Coast have too often omitted the response of Asian settlers to this territory. In part this is due to the dearth of written records left by Asian settlers; in contrast to the commissioned agents, most of the people who first came to western North America from Asia during this same period did not focus on developing a self-conscious written record of their involvement with the landscape. But because a full study of a culture's historical relationship to its land cannot confine itself to a narrow record of experience, these historiographers have begun to recognize the value of other kinds of evidence, such as the actions of Asian settlers. As a case in point, the role of Chinese settlers in expanding agriculture throughout the Pacific Coast territory is integral to the history of the region. Without access to the better land, Chinese settlers looked for agricultural potential in this generally arid region where other settlers did not. For example, where settlers of European descent looked at willows and saw only useless, untillable swamp, Chinese settlers saw fresh water, fertile soil, and the potential for bringing water to more arid areas via irrigation. Where other settlers who looked at certain weeds, such as wild mustard, generally saw a nuisance, Chinese settlers saw abundant raw material for valuable spices from a plant naturally suited to the local soil and climate. Given their role in the labor force shaping this territory in the nineteenth century, the Chinese settlers offered more than just a new view of the land. Their vision was reinforced by specialized skills involving swamp reclamation and irrigation systems, which helped lay the foundation for the now well-known and prosperous agribusiness of the region. That 80 percent of the area's cropland is now irrigated and that the region is currently the top producer of many specialty crops cannot be fully understood by historiographers without attention to the input of Chinese settlers as reconstructed from their interactions with that landscape.

200410_1-RC_2_8

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

In the field of historiography—the writing of history based on a critical examination of authentic primary information sources—one area that has recently attracted attention focuses on the responses of explorers and settlers to new landscapes in order to provide insights into the transformations the landscape itself has undergone as a result of settlement. In this endeavor historiographers examining the history of the Pacific Coast of the United States have traditionally depended on the records left by European American explorers of the nineteenth century who, as commissioned agents of the U.S. government, were instructed to report thoroughly their findings in writing. But in furthering this investigation some historiographers have recently recognized the need to expand their definition of what a source is. They maintain that the sources traditionally accepted as documenting the history of the Pacific Coast have too often omitted the response of Asian settlers to this territory. In part this is due to the dearth of written records left by Asian settlers; in contrast to the commissioned agents, most of the people who first came to western North America from Asia during this same period did not focus on developing a self-conscious written record of their involvement with the landscape. But because a full study of a culture's historical relationship to its land cannot confine itself to a narrow record of experience, these historiographers have begun to recognize the value of other kinds of evidence, such as the actions of Asian settlers. As a case in point, the role of Chinese settlers in expanding agriculture throughout the Pacific Coast territory is integral to the history of the region. Without access to the better land, Chinese settlers looked for agricultural potential in this generally arid region where other settlers did not. For example, where settlers of European descent looked at willows and saw only useless, untillable swamp, Chinese settlers saw fresh water, fertile soil, and the potential for bringing water to more arid areas via irrigation. Where other settlers who looked at certain weeds, such as wild mustard, generally saw a nuisance, Chinese settlers saw abundant raw material for valuable spices from a plant naturally suited to the local soil and climate. Given their role in the labor force shaping this territory in the nineteenth century, the Chinese settlers offered more than just a new view of the land. Their vision was reinforced by specialized skills involving swamp reclamation and irrigation systems, which helped lay the foundation for the now well-known and prosperous agribusiness of the region. That 80 percent of the area's cropland is now irrigated and that the region is currently the top producer of many specialty crops cannot be fully understood by historiographers without attention to the input of Chinese settlers as reconstructed from their interactions with that landscape.

200410_1-RC_2_9

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's primary purpose in discussing Chinese settlers in the third paragraph?

In the field of historiography—the writing of history based on a critical examination of authentic primary information sources—one area that has recently attracted attention focuses on the responses of explorers and settlers to new landscapes in order to provide insights into the transformations the landscape itself has undergone as a result of settlement. In this endeavor historiographers examining the history of the Pacific Coast of the United States have traditionally depended on the records left by European American explorers of the nineteenth century who, as commissioned agents of the U.S. government, were instructed to report thoroughly their findings in writing. But in furthering this investigation some historiographers have recently recognized the need to expand their definition of what a source is. They maintain that the sources traditionally accepted as documenting the history of the Pacific Coast have too often omitted the response of Asian settlers to this territory. In part this is due to the dearth of written records left by Asian settlers; in contrast to the commissioned agents, most of the people who first came to western North America from Asia during this same period did not focus on developing a self-conscious written record of their involvement with the landscape. But because a full study of a culture's historical relationship to its land cannot confine itself to a narrow record of experience, these historiographers have begun to recognize the value of other kinds of evidence, such as the actions of Asian settlers. As a case in point, the role of Chinese settlers in expanding agriculture throughout the Pacific Coast territory is integral to the history of the region. Without access to the better land, Chinese settlers looked for agricultural potential in this generally arid region where other settlers did not. For example, where settlers of European descent looked at willows and saw only useless, untillable swamp, Chinese settlers saw fresh water, fertile soil, and the potential for bringing water to more arid areas via irrigation. Where other settlers who looked at certain weeds, such as wild mustard, generally saw a nuisance, Chinese settlers saw abundant raw material for valuable spices from a plant naturally suited to the local soil and climate. Given their role in the labor force shaping this territory in the nineteenth century, the Chinese settlers offered more than just a new view of the land. Their vision was reinforced by specialized skills involving swamp reclamation and irrigation systems, which helped lay the foundation for the now well-known and prosperous agribusiness of the region. That 80 percent of the area's cropland is now irrigated and that the region is currently the top producer of many specialty crops cannot be fully understood by historiographers without attention to the input of Chinese settlers as reconstructed from their interactions with that landscape.

200410_1-RC_2_10

The passage states that the primary traditional historiographic sources of information about the history of the Pacific Coast of the U.S. have which one of the following characteristics?

In the field of historiography—the writing of history based on a critical examination of authentic primary information sources—one area that has recently attracted attention focuses on the responses of explorers and settlers to new landscapes in order to provide insights into the transformations the landscape itself has undergone as a result of settlement. In this endeavor historiographers examining the history of the Pacific Coast of the United States have traditionally depended on the records left by European American explorers of the nineteenth century who, as commissioned agents of the U.S. government, were instructed to report thoroughly their findings in writing. But in furthering this investigation some historiographers have recently recognized the need to expand their definition of what a source is. They maintain that the sources traditionally accepted as documenting the history of the Pacific Coast have too often omitted the response of Asian settlers to this territory. In part this is due to the dearth of written records left by Asian settlers; in contrast to the commissioned agents, most of the people who first came to western North America from Asia during this same period did not focus on developing a self-conscious written record of their involvement with the landscape. But because a full study of a culture's historical relationship to its land cannot confine itself to a narrow record of experience, these historiographers have begun to recognize the value of other kinds of evidence, such as the actions of Asian settlers. As a case in point, the role of Chinese settlers in expanding agriculture throughout the Pacific Coast territory is integral to the history of the region. Without access to the better land, Chinese settlers looked for agricultural potential in this generally arid region where other settlers did not. For example, where settlers of European descent looked at willows and saw only useless, untillable swamp, Chinese settlers saw fresh water, fertile soil, and the potential for bringing water to more arid areas via irrigation. Where other settlers who looked at certain weeds, such as wild mustard, generally saw a nuisance, Chinese settlers saw abundant raw material for valuable spices from a plant naturally suited to the local soil and climate. Given their role in the labor force shaping this territory in the nineteenth century, the Chinese settlers offered more than just a new view of the land. Their vision was reinforced by specialized skills involving swamp reclamation and irrigation systems, which helped lay the foundation for the now well-known and prosperous agribusiness of the region. That 80 percent of the area's cropland is now irrigated and that the region is currently the top producer of many specialty crops cannot be fully understood by historiographers without attention to the input of Chinese settlers as reconstructed from their interactions with that landscape.

200410_1-RC_2_11

The author would most likely disagree with which one of the following statements?

In the field of historiography—the writing of history based on a critical examination of authentic primary information sources—one area that has recently attracted attention focuses on the responses of explorers and settlers to new landscapes in order to provide insights into the transformations the landscape itself has undergone as a result of settlement. In this endeavor historiographers examining the history of the Pacific Coast of the United States have traditionally depended on the records left by European American explorers of the nineteenth century who, as commissioned agents of the U.S. government, were instructed to report thoroughly their findings in writing. But in furthering this investigation some historiographers have recently recognized the need to expand their definition of what a source is. They maintain that the sources traditionally accepted as documenting the history of the Pacific Coast have too often omitted the response of Asian settlers to this territory. In part this is due to the dearth of written records left by Asian settlers; in contrast to the commissioned agents, most of the people who first came to western North America from Asia during this same period did not focus on developing a self-conscious written record of their involvement with the landscape. But because a full study of a culture's historical relationship to its land cannot confine itself to a narrow record of experience, these historiographers have begun to recognize the value of other kinds of evidence, such as the actions of Asian settlers. As a case in point, the role of Chinese settlers in expanding agriculture throughout the Pacific Coast territory is integral to the history of the region. Without access to the better land, Chinese settlers looked for agricultural potential in this generally arid region where other settlers did not. For example, where settlers of European descent looked at willows and saw only useless, untillable swamp, Chinese settlers saw fresh water, fertile soil, and the potential for bringing water to more arid areas via irrigation. Where other settlers who looked at certain weeds, such as wild mustard, generally saw a nuisance, Chinese settlers saw abundant raw material for valuable spices from a plant naturally suited to the local soil and climate. Given their role in the labor force shaping this territory in the nineteenth century, the Chinese settlers offered more than just a new view of the land. Their vision was reinforced by specialized skills involving swamp reclamation and irrigation systems, which helped lay the foundation for the now well-known and prosperous agribusiness of the region. That 80 percent of the area's cropland is now irrigated and that the region is currently the top producer of many specialty crops cannot be fully understood by historiographers without attention to the input of Chinese settlers as reconstructed from their interactions with that landscape.

200410_1-RC_2_12

According to the passage, each of the following was an aspect of Chinese settlers' initial interactions with the landscape of the Pacific Coast of the U.S. EXCEPT:

In the field of historiography—the writing of history based on a critical examination of authentic primary information sources—one area that has recently attracted attention focuses on the responses of explorers and settlers to new landscapes in order to provide insights into the transformations the landscape itself has undergone as a result of settlement. In this endeavor historiographers examining the history of the Pacific Coast of the United States have traditionally depended on the records left by European American explorers of the nineteenth century who, as commissioned agents of the U.S. government, were instructed to report thoroughly their findings in writing. But in furthering this investigation some historiographers have recently recognized the need to expand their definition of what a source is. They maintain that the sources traditionally accepted as documenting the history of the Pacific Coast have too often omitted the response of Asian settlers to this territory. In part this is due to the dearth of written records left by Asian settlers; in contrast to the commissioned agents, most of the people who first came to western North America from Asia during this same period did not focus on developing a self-conscious written record of their involvement with the landscape. But because a full study of a culture's historical relationship to its land cannot confine itself to a narrow record of experience, these historiographers have begun to recognize the value of other kinds of evidence, such as the actions of Asian settlers. As a case in point, the role of Chinese settlers in expanding agriculture throughout the Pacific Coast territory is integral to the history of the region. Without access to the better land, Chinese settlers looked for agricultural potential in this generally arid region where other settlers did not. For example, where settlers of European descent looked at willows and saw only useless, untillable swamp, Chinese settlers saw fresh water, fertile soil, and the potential for bringing water to more arid areas via irrigation. Where other settlers who looked at certain weeds, such as wild mustard, generally saw a nuisance, Chinese settlers saw abundant raw material for valuable spices from a plant naturally suited to the local soil and climate. Given their role in the labor force shaping this territory in the nineteenth century, the Chinese settlers offered more than just a new view of the land. Their vision was reinforced by specialized skills involving swamp reclamation and irrigation systems, which helped lay the foundation for the now well-known and prosperous agribusiness of the region. That 80 percent of the area's cropland is now irrigated and that the region is currently the top producer of many specialty crops cannot be fully understood by historiographers without attention to the input of Chinese settlers as reconstructed from their interactions with that landscape.

200410_1-RC_2_13

Which one of the following can most reasonably be inferred from the passage?

In the field of historiography—the writing of history based on a critical examination of authentic primary information sources—one area that has recently attracted attention focuses on the responses of explorers and settlers to new landscapes in order to provide insights into the transformations the landscape itself has undergone as a result of settlement. In this endeavor historiographers examining the history of the Pacific Coast of the United States have traditionally depended on the records left by European American explorers of the nineteenth century who, as commissioned agents of the U.S. government, were instructed to report thoroughly their findings in writing. But in furthering this investigation some historiographers have recently recognized the need to expand their definition of what a source is. They maintain that the sources traditionally accepted as documenting the history of the Pacific Coast have too often omitted the response of Asian settlers to this territory. In part this is due to the dearth of written records left by Asian settlers; in contrast to the commissioned agents, most of the people who first came to western North America from Asia during this same period did not focus on developing a self-conscious written record of their involvement with the landscape. But because a full study of a culture's historical relationship to its land cannot confine itself to a narrow record of experience, these historiographers have begun to recognize the value of other kinds of evidence, such as the actions of Asian settlers. As a case in point, the role of Chinese settlers in expanding agriculture throughout the Pacific Coast territory is integral to the history of the region. Without access to the better land, Chinese settlers looked for agricultural potential in this generally arid region where other settlers did not. For example, where settlers of European descent looked at willows and saw only useless, untillable swamp, Chinese settlers saw fresh water, fertile soil, and the potential for bringing water to more arid areas via irrigation. Where other settlers who looked at certain weeds, such as wild mustard, generally saw a nuisance, Chinese settlers saw abundant raw material for valuable spices from a plant naturally suited to the local soil and climate. Given their role in the labor force shaping this territory in the nineteenth century, the Chinese settlers offered more than just a new view of the land. Their vision was reinforced by specialized skills involving swamp reclamation and irrigation systems, which helped lay the foundation for the now well-known and prosperous agribusiness of the region. That 80 percent of the area's cropland is now irrigated and that the region is currently the top producer of many specialty crops cannot be fully understood by historiographers without attention to the input of Chinese settlers as reconstructed from their interactions with that landscape.

200410_1-RC_2_14

Which one of the following, if true, would most help to strengthen the author's main claim in the last sentence of the passage?

The survival of nerve cells, as well as their performance of some specialized functions, is regulated by chemicals known as neurotrophic factors, which are produced in the bodies of animals, including humans. Rita Levi-Montalcini's discovery in the 1950s of the first of these agents, a hormonelike substance now known as NGF, was a crucial development in the history of biochemistry, which led to Levi-Montalcini sharing the Nobel Prize for medicine in 1986. In the mid-1940s, Levi-Montalcini had begun by hypothesizing that many of the immature nerve cells produced in the development of an organism are normally programmed to die. In order to confirm this theory, she conducted research that in 1949 found that, when embryos are in the process of forming their nervous systems, they produce many more nerve cells than are finally required, the number that survives eventually adjusting itself to the volume of tissue to be supplied with nerves. A further phase of the experimentation, which led to Levi-Montalcini's identification of the substance that controls this process, began with her observation that the development of nerves in chick embryos could be stimulated by implanting a certain variety of mouse tumor in the embryos. She theorized that a chemical produced by the tumors was responsible for the observed nerve growth. To investigate this hypothesis, she used the then new technique of tissue culture, by which specific types of body cells can be made to grow outside the organism from which they are derived. Within twenty-four hours, her tissue cultures of chick embryo extracts developed dense halos of nerve tissue near the places in the culture where she had added the mouse tumor. Further research identified a specific substance contributed by the mouse tumors that was responsible for the effects Levi-Montalcini had observed: a protein that she named "nerve growth factor" (NGF). NGF was the first of many cell-growth factors to be found in the bodies of animals. Through Levi-Montalcini's work and other subsequent research, it has been determined that this substance is present in many tissues and biological fluids, and that it is especially concentrated in some organs. In developing organisms, nerve cells apparently receive this growth factor locally from the cells of muscles or other organs to which they will form connections for transmission of nerve impulses, and sometimes from supporting cells intermingled with the nerve tissue. NGF seems to play two roles, serving initially to direct the developing nerve processes toward the correct, specific "target" cells with which they must connect, and later being necessary for the continued survival of those nerve cells. During some periods of their development, the types of nerve cells that are affected by NGF—primarily cells outside the brain and spinal cord—die if the factor is not present or if they encounter anti-NGF antibodies.

200410_1-RC_3_15

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

The survival of nerve cells, as well as their performance of some specialized functions, is regulated by chemicals known as neurotrophic factors, which are produced in the bodies of animals, including humans. Rita Levi-Montalcini's discovery in the 1950s of the first of these agents, a hormonelike substance now known as NGF, was a crucial development in the history of biochemistry, which led to Levi-Montalcini sharing the Nobel Prize for medicine in 1986. In the mid-1940s, Levi-Montalcini had begun by hypothesizing that many of the immature nerve cells produced in the development of an organism are normally programmed to die. In order to confirm this theory, she conducted research that in 1949 found that, when embryos are in the process of forming their nervous systems, they produce many more nerve cells than are finally required, the number that survives eventually adjusting itself to the volume of tissue to be supplied with nerves. A further phase of the experimentation, which led to Levi-Montalcini's identification of the substance that controls this process, began with her observation that the development of nerves in chick embryos could be stimulated by implanting a certain variety of mouse tumor in the embryos. She theorized that a chemical produced by the tumors was responsible for the observed nerve growth. To investigate this hypothesis, she used the then new technique of tissue culture, by which specific types of body cells can be made to grow outside the organism from which they are derived. Within twenty-four hours, her tissue cultures of chick embryo extracts developed dense halos of nerve tissue near the places in the culture where she had added the mouse tumor. Further research identified a specific substance contributed by the mouse tumors that was responsible for the effects Levi-Montalcini had observed: a protein that she named "nerve growth factor" (NGF). NGF was the first of many cell-growth factors to be found in the bodies of animals. Through Levi-Montalcini's work and other subsequent research, it has been determined that this substance is present in many tissues and biological fluids, and that it is especially concentrated in some organs. In developing organisms, nerve cells apparently receive this growth factor locally from the cells of muscles or other organs to which they will form connections for transmission of nerve impulses, and sometimes from supporting cells intermingled with the nerve tissue. NGF seems to play two roles, serving initially to direct the developing nerve processes toward the correct, specific "target" cells with which they must connect, and later being necessary for the continued survival of those nerve cells. During some periods of their development, the types of nerve cells that are affected by NGF—primarily cells outside the brain and spinal cord—die if the factor is not present or if they encounter anti-NGF antibodies.

200410_1-RC_3_16

Based on the passage, the author would be most likely to believe that Levi-Montalcini's discovery of NGF is noteworthy primarily because it

The survival of nerve cells, as well as their performance of some specialized functions, is regulated by chemicals known as neurotrophic factors, which are produced in the bodies of animals, including humans. Rita Levi-Montalcini's discovery in the 1950s of the first of these agents, a hormonelike substance now known as NGF, was a crucial development in the history of biochemistry, which led to Levi-Montalcini sharing the Nobel Prize for medicine in 1986. In the mid-1940s, Levi-Montalcini had begun by hypothesizing that many of the immature nerve cells produced in the development of an organism are normally programmed to die. In order to confirm this theory, she conducted research that in 1949 found that, when embryos are in the process of forming their nervous systems, they produce many more nerve cells than are finally required, the number that survives eventually adjusting itself to the volume of tissue to be supplied with nerves. A further phase of the experimentation, which led to Levi-Montalcini's identification of the substance that controls this process, began with her observation that the development of nerves in chick embryos could be stimulated by implanting a certain variety of mouse tumor in the embryos. She theorized that a chemical produced by the tumors was responsible for the observed nerve growth. To investigate this hypothesis, she used the then new technique of tissue culture, by which specific types of body cells can be made to grow outside the organism from which they are derived. Within twenty-four hours, her tissue cultures of chick embryo extracts developed dense halos of nerve tissue near the places in the culture where she had added the mouse tumor. Further research identified a specific substance contributed by the mouse tumors that was responsible for the effects Levi-Montalcini had observed: a protein that she named "nerve growth factor" (NGF). NGF was the first of many cell-growth factors to be found in the bodies of animals. Through Levi-Montalcini's work and other subsequent research, it has been determined that this substance is present in many tissues and biological fluids, and that it is especially concentrated in some organs. In developing organisms, nerve cells apparently receive this growth factor locally from the cells of muscles or other organs to which they will form connections for transmission of nerve impulses, and sometimes from supporting cells intermingled with the nerve tissue. NGF seems to play two roles, serving initially to direct the developing nerve processes toward the correct, specific "target" cells with which they must connect, and later being necessary for the continued survival of those nerve cells. During some periods of their development, the types of nerve cells that are affected by NGF—primarily cells outside the brain and spinal cord—die if the factor is not present or if they encounter anti-NGF antibodies.

200410_1-RC_3_17

The primary function of the third paragraph of the passage in relation to the second paragraph is to

The survival of nerve cells, as well as their performance of some specialized functions, is regulated by chemicals known as neurotrophic factors, which are produced in the bodies of animals, including humans. Rita Levi-Montalcini's discovery in the 1950s of the first of these agents, a hormonelike substance now known as NGF, was a crucial development in the history of biochemistry, which led to Levi-Montalcini sharing the Nobel Prize for medicine in 1986. In the mid-1940s, Levi-Montalcini had begun by hypothesizing that many of the immature nerve cells produced in the development of an organism are normally programmed to die. In order to confirm this theory, she conducted research that in 1949 found that, when embryos are in the process of forming their nervous systems, they produce many more nerve cells than are finally required, the number that survives eventually adjusting itself to the volume of tissue to be supplied with nerves. A further phase of the experimentation, which led to Levi-Montalcini's identification of the substance that controls this process, began with her observation that the development of nerves in chick embryos could be stimulated by implanting a certain variety of mouse tumor in the embryos. She theorized that a chemical produced by the tumors was responsible for the observed nerve growth. To investigate this hypothesis, she used the then new technique of tissue culture, by which specific types of body cells can be made to grow outside the organism from which they are derived. Within twenty-four hours, her tissue cultures of chick embryo extracts developed dense halos of nerve tissue near the places in the culture where she had added the mouse tumor. Further research identified a specific substance contributed by the mouse tumors that was responsible for the effects Levi-Montalcini had observed: a protein that she named "nerve growth factor" (NGF). NGF was the first of many cell-growth factors to be found in the bodies of animals. Through Levi-Montalcini's work and other subsequent research, it has been determined that this substance is present in many tissues and biological fluids, and that it is especially concentrated in some organs. In developing organisms, nerve cells apparently receive this growth factor locally from the cells of muscles or other organs to which they will form connections for transmission of nerve impulses, and sometimes from supporting cells intermingled with the nerve tissue. NGF seems to play two roles, serving initially to direct the developing nerve processes toward the correct, specific "target" cells with which they must connect, and later being necessary for the continued survival of those nerve cells. During some periods of their development, the types of nerve cells that are affected by NGF—primarily cells outside the brain and spinal cord—die if the factor is not present or if they encounter anti-NGF antibodies.

200410_1-RC_3_18

Information in the passage most strongly supports which one of the following?

The survival of nerve cells, as well as their performance of some specialized functions, is regulated by chemicals known as neurotrophic factors, which are produced in the bodies of animals, including humans. Rita Levi-Montalcini's discovery in the 1950s of the first of these agents, a hormonelike substance now known as NGF, was a crucial development in the history of biochemistry, which led to Levi-Montalcini sharing the Nobel Prize for medicine in 1986. In the mid-1940s, Levi-Montalcini had begun by hypothesizing that many of the immature nerve cells produced in the development of an organism are normally programmed to die. In order to confirm this theory, she conducted research that in 1949 found that, when embryos are in the process of forming their nervous systems, they produce many more nerve cells than are finally required, the number that survives eventually adjusting itself to the volume of tissue to be supplied with nerves. A further phase of the experimentation, which led to Levi-Montalcini's identification of the substance that controls this process, began with her observation that the development of nerves in chick embryos could be stimulated by implanting a certain variety of mouse tumor in the embryos. She theorized that a chemical produced by the tumors was responsible for the observed nerve growth. To investigate this hypothesis, she used the then new technique of tissue culture, by which specific types of body cells can be made to grow outside the organism from which they are derived. Within twenty-four hours, her tissue cultures of chick embryo extracts developed dense halos of nerve tissue near the places in the culture where she had added the mouse tumor. Further research identified a specific substance contributed by the mouse tumors that was responsible for the effects Levi-Montalcini had observed: a protein that she named "nerve growth factor" (NGF). NGF was the first of many cell-growth factors to be found in the bodies of animals. Through Levi-Montalcini's work and other subsequent research, it has been determined that this substance is present in many tissues and biological fluids, and that it is especially concentrated in some organs. In developing organisms, nerve cells apparently receive this growth factor locally from the cells of muscles or other organs to which they will form connections for transmission of nerve impulses, and sometimes from supporting cells intermingled with the nerve tissue. NGF seems to play two roles, serving initially to direct the developing nerve processes toward the correct, specific "target" cells with which they must connect, and later being necessary for the continued survival of those nerve cells. During some periods of their development, the types of nerve cells that are affected by NGF—primarily cells outside the brain and spinal cord—die if the factor is not present or if they encounter anti-NGF antibodies.

200410_1-RC_3_19

The passage describes a specific experiment that tested which one of the following hypotheses?

The survival of nerve cells, as well as their performance of some specialized functions, is regulated by chemicals known as neurotrophic factors, which are produced in the bodies of animals, including humans. Rita Levi-Montalcini's discovery in the 1950s of the first of these agents, a hormonelike substance now known as NGF, was a crucial development in the history of biochemistry, which led to Levi-Montalcini sharing the Nobel Prize for medicine in 1986. In the mid-1940s, Levi-Montalcini had begun by hypothesizing that many of the immature nerve cells produced in the development of an organism are normally programmed to die. In order to confirm this theory, she conducted research that in 1949 found that, when embryos are in the process of forming their nervous systems, they produce many more nerve cells than are finally required, the number that survives eventually adjusting itself to the volume of tissue to be supplied with nerves. A further phase of the experimentation, which led to Levi-Montalcini's identification of the substance that controls this process, began with her observation that the development of nerves in chick embryos could be stimulated by implanting a certain variety of mouse tumor in the embryos. She theorized that a chemical produced by the tumors was responsible for the observed nerve growth. To investigate this hypothesis, she used the then new technique of tissue culture, by which specific types of body cells can be made to grow outside the organism from which they are derived. Within twenty-four hours, her tissue cultures of chick embryo extracts developed dense halos of nerve tissue near the places in the culture where she had added the mouse tumor. Further research identified a specific substance contributed by the mouse tumors that was responsible for the effects Levi-Montalcini had observed: a protein that she named "nerve growth factor" (NGF). NGF was the first of many cell-growth factors to be found in the bodies of animals. Through Levi-Montalcini's work and other subsequent research, it has been determined that this substance is present in many tissues and biological fluids, and that it is especially concentrated in some organs. In developing organisms, nerve cells apparently receive this growth factor locally from the cells of muscles or other organs to which they will form connections for transmission of nerve impulses, and sometimes from supporting cells intermingled with the nerve tissue. NGF seems to play two roles, serving initially to direct the developing nerve processes toward the correct, specific "target" cells with which they must connect, and later being necessary for the continued survival of those nerve cells. During some periods of their development, the types of nerve cells that are affected by NGF—primarily cells outside the brain and spinal cord—die if the factor is not present or if they encounter anti-NGF antibodies.

200410_1-RC_3_20

Which one of the following is most strongly supported by the information in the passage?

The proponents of the Modern Movement in architecture considered that, compared with the historical styles that it replaced, Modernist architecture more accurately reflected the functional spirit of twentieth-century technology and was better suited to the newest building methods. It is ironic, then, that the Movement fostered an ideology of design that proved to be at odds with the way buildings were really built. The tenacious adherence of Modernist architects and critics to this ideology was in part responsible for the Movement's decline. Originating in the 1920s as a marginal, almost bohemian art movement, the Modern Movement was never very popular with the public, but this very lack of popular support produced in Modernist architects a high-minded sense of mission—not content merely to interpret the needs of the client, these architects now sought to persuade, to educate, and, if necessary, to dictate. By 1945 the tenets of the Movement had come to dominate mainstream architecture, and by the early 1950s, to dominate architectural criticism—architects whose work seemed not to advance the evolution of the Modern Movement tended to be dismissed by proponents of Modernism. On the other hand, when architects were identified as innovators—as was the case with Otto Wagner, or the young Frank Lloyd Wright—attention was drawn to only those features of their work that were "Modern" ; other aspects were conveniently ignored. The decline of the Modern Movement later in the twentieth century occurred partly as a result of Modernist architects' ignorance of building methods, and partly because Modernist architects were reluctant to admit that their concerns were chiefly aesthetic. Moreover, the building industry was evolving in a direction Modernists had not anticipated: it was more specialized and the process of construction was much more fragmented than in the past. Up until the twentieth century, construction had been carried out by a relatively small number of tradespeople, but as the building industry evolved, buildings came to be built by many specialized subcontractors working independently. The architect's design not only had to accommodate a sequence of independent operations, but now had to reflect the allowable degree of inaccuracy of the different trades. However, one of the chief construction ideals of the Modern Movement was to "honestly" expose structural materials such as steel and concrete. To do this and still produce a visually acceptable interior called for an unrealistically high level of craftmanship. Exposure of a building's internal structural elements, if it could be achieved at all, could only be accomplished at considerable cost— hence the well-founded reputation of Modern architecture as prohibitively expensive. As Postmodern architects recognized, the need to expose structural elements imposed unnecessary limitations on building design. The unwillingness of architects of the Modern Movement to abandon their ideals contributed to the decline of interest in the Modern Movement.

200410_1-RC_4_21

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

The proponents of the Modern Movement in architecture considered that, compared with the historical styles that it replaced, Modernist architecture more accurately reflected the functional spirit of twentieth-century technology and was better suited to the newest building methods. It is ironic, then, that the Movement fostered an ideology of design that proved to be at odds with the way buildings were really built. The tenacious adherence of Modernist architects and critics to this ideology was in part responsible for the Movement's decline. Originating in the 1920s as a marginal, almost bohemian art movement, the Modern Movement was never very popular with the public, but this very lack of popular support produced in Modernist architects a high-minded sense of mission—not content merely to interpret the needs of the client, these architects now sought to persuade, to educate, and, if necessary, to dictate. By 1945 the tenets of the Movement had come to dominate mainstream architecture, and by the early 1950s, to dominate architectural criticism—architects whose work seemed not to advance the evolution of the Modern Movement tended to be dismissed by proponents of Modernism. On the other hand, when architects were identified as innovators—as was the case with Otto Wagner, or the young Frank Lloyd Wright—attention was drawn to only those features of their work that were "Modern" ; other aspects were conveniently ignored. The decline of the Modern Movement later in the twentieth century occurred partly as a result of Modernist architects' ignorance of building methods, and partly because Modernist architects were reluctant to admit that their concerns were chiefly aesthetic. Moreover, the building industry was evolving in a direction Modernists had not anticipated: it was more specialized and the process of construction was much more fragmented than in the past. Up until the twentieth century, construction had been carried out by a relatively small number of tradespeople, but as the building industry evolved, buildings came to be built by many specialized subcontractors working independently. The architect's design not only had to accommodate a sequence of independent operations, but now had to reflect the allowable degree of inaccuracy of the different trades. However, one of the chief construction ideals of the Modern Movement was to "honestly" expose structural materials such as steel and concrete. To do this and still produce a visually acceptable interior called for an unrealistically high level of craftmanship. Exposure of a building's internal structural elements, if it could be achieved at all, could only be accomplished at considerable cost— hence the well-founded reputation of Modern architecture as prohibitively expensive. As Postmodern architects recognized, the need to expose structural elements imposed unnecessary limitations on building design. The unwillingness of architects of the Modern Movement to abandon their ideals contributed to the decline of interest in the Modern Movement.

200410_1-RC_4_22

Which one of the following is most similar to the relationship described in the passage between the new methods of the building industry and pre-twentieth-century construction?

The proponents of the Modern Movement in architecture considered that, compared with the historical styles that it replaced, Modernist architecture more accurately reflected the functional spirit of twentieth-century technology and was better suited to the newest building methods. It is ironic, then, that the Movement fostered an ideology of design that proved to be at odds with the way buildings were really built. The tenacious adherence of Modernist architects and critics to this ideology was in part responsible for the Movement's decline. Originating in the 1920s as a marginal, almost bohemian art movement, the Modern Movement was never very popular with the public, but this very lack of popular support produced in Modernist architects a high-minded sense of mission—not content merely to interpret the needs of the client, these architects now sought to persuade, to educate, and, if necessary, to dictate. By 1945 the tenets of the Movement had come to dominate mainstream architecture, and by the early 1950s, to dominate architectural criticism—architects whose work seemed not to advance the evolution of the Modern Movement tended to be dismissed by proponents of Modernism. On the other hand, when architects were identified as innovators—as was the case with Otto Wagner, or the young Frank Lloyd Wright—attention was drawn to only those features of their work that were "Modern" ; other aspects were conveniently ignored. The decline of the Modern Movement later in the twentieth century occurred partly as a result of Modernist architects' ignorance of building methods, and partly because Modernist architects were reluctant to admit that their concerns were chiefly aesthetic. Moreover, the building industry was evolving in a direction Modernists had not anticipated: it was more specialized and the process of construction was much more fragmented than in the past. Up until the twentieth century, construction had been carried out by a relatively small number of tradespeople, but as the building industry evolved, buildings came to be built by many specialized subcontractors working independently. The architect's design not only had to accommodate a sequence of independent operations, but now had to reflect the allowable degree of inaccuracy of the different trades. However, one of the chief construction ideals of the Modern Movement was to "honestly" expose structural materials such as steel and concrete. To do this and still produce a visually acceptable interior called for an unrealistically high level of craftmanship. Exposure of a building's internal structural elements, if it could be achieved at all, could only be accomplished at considerable cost— hence the well-founded reputation of Modern architecture as prohibitively expensive. As Postmodern architects recognized, the need to expose structural elements imposed unnecessary limitations on building design. The unwillingness of architects of the Modern Movement to abandon their ideals contributed to the decline of interest in the Modern Movement.

200410_1-RC_4_23

With respect to the proponents of the Modern Movement, the author of the passage can best be described as

The proponents of the Modern Movement in architecture considered that, compared with the historical styles that it replaced, Modernist architecture more accurately reflected the functional spirit of twentieth-century technology and was better suited to the newest building methods. It is ironic, then, that the Movement fostered an ideology of design that proved to be at odds with the way buildings were really built. The tenacious adherence of Modernist architects and critics to this ideology was in part responsible for the Movement's decline. Originating in the 1920s as a marginal, almost bohemian art movement, the Modern Movement was never very popular with the public, but this very lack of popular support produced in Modernist architects a high-minded sense of mission—not content merely to interpret the needs of the client, these architects now sought to persuade, to educate, and, if necessary, to dictate. By 1945 the tenets of the Movement had come to dominate mainstream architecture, and by the early 1950s, to dominate architectural criticism—architects whose work seemed not to advance the evolution of the Modern Movement tended to be dismissed by proponents of Modernism. On the other hand, when architects were identified as innovators—as was the case with Otto Wagner, or the young Frank Lloyd Wright—attention was drawn to only those features of their work that were "Modern" ; other aspects were conveniently ignored. The decline of the Modern Movement later in the twentieth century occurred partly as a result of Modernist architects' ignorance of building methods, and partly because Modernist architects were reluctant to admit that their concerns were chiefly aesthetic. Moreover, the building industry was evolving in a direction Modernists had not anticipated: it was more specialized and the process of construction was much more fragmented than in the past. Up until the twentieth century, construction had been carried out by a relatively small number of tradespeople, but as the building industry evolved, buildings came to be built by many specialized subcontractors working independently. The architect's design not only had to accommodate a sequence of independent operations, but now had to reflect the allowable degree of inaccuracy of the different trades. However, one of the chief construction ideals of the Modern Movement was to "honestly" expose structural materials such as steel and concrete. To do this and still produce a visually acceptable interior called for an unrealistically high level of craftmanship. Exposure of a building's internal structural elements, if it could be achieved at all, could only be accomplished at considerable cost— hence the well-founded reputation of Modern architecture as prohibitively expensive. As Postmodern architects recognized, the need to expose structural elements imposed unnecessary limitations on building design. The unwillingness of architects of the Modern Movement to abandon their ideals contributed to the decline of interest in the Modern Movement.

200410_1-RC_4_24

It can be inferred that the author of the passage believes which one of the following about Modern Movement architects' ideal of exposing structural materials?

The proponents of the Modern Movement in architecture considered that, compared with the historical styles that it replaced, Modernist architecture more accurately reflected the functional spirit of twentieth-century technology and was better suited to the newest building methods. It is ironic, then, that the Movement fostered an ideology of design that proved to be at odds with the way buildings were really built. The tenacious adherence of Modernist architects and critics to this ideology was in part responsible for the Movement's decline. Originating in the 1920s as a marginal, almost bohemian art movement, the Modern Movement was never very popular with the public, but this very lack of popular support produced in Modernist architects a high-minded sense of mission—not content merely to interpret the needs of the client, these architects now sought to persuade, to educate, and, if necessary, to dictate. By 1945 the tenets of the Movement had come to dominate mainstream architecture, and by the early 1950s, to dominate architectural criticism—architects whose work seemed not to advance the evolution of the Modern Movement tended to be dismissed by proponents of Modernism. On the other hand, when architects were identified as innovators—as was the case with Otto Wagner, or the young Frank Lloyd Wright—attention was drawn to only those features of their work that were "Modern" ; other aspects were conveniently ignored. The decline of the Modern Movement later in the twentieth century occurred partly as a result of Modernist architects' ignorance of building methods, and partly because Modernist architects were reluctant to admit that their concerns were chiefly aesthetic. Moreover, the building industry was evolving in a direction Modernists had not anticipated: it was more specialized and the process of construction was much more fragmented than in the past. Up until the twentieth century, construction had been carried out by a relatively small number of tradespeople, but as the building industry evolved, buildings came to be built by many specialized subcontractors working independently. The architect's design not only had to accommodate a sequence of independent operations, but now had to reflect the allowable degree of inaccuracy of the different trades. However, one of the chief construction ideals of the Modern Movement was to "honestly" expose structural materials such as steel and concrete. To do this and still produce a visually acceptable interior called for an unrealistically high level of craftmanship. Exposure of a building's internal structural elements, if it could be achieved at all, could only be accomplished at considerable cost— hence the well-founded reputation of Modern architecture as prohibitively expensive. As Postmodern architects recognized, the need to expose structural elements imposed unnecessary limitations on building design. The unwillingness of architects of the Modern Movement to abandon their ideals contributed to the decline of interest in the Modern Movement.

200410_1-RC_4_25

Which one of the following, in its context in the passage, most clearly reveals the attitude of the author toward the proponents of the Modern Movement?

The proponents of the Modern Movement in architecture considered that, compared with the historical styles that it replaced, Modernist architecture more accurately reflected the functional spirit of twentieth-century technology and was better suited to the newest building methods. It is ironic, then, that the Movement fostered an ideology of design that proved to be at odds with the way buildings were really built. The tenacious adherence of Modernist architects and critics to this ideology was in part responsible for the Movement's decline. Originating in the 1920s as a marginal, almost bohemian art movement, the Modern Movement was never very popular with the public, but this very lack of popular support produced in Modernist architects a high-minded sense of mission—not content merely to interpret the needs of the client, these architects now sought to persuade, to educate, and, if necessary, to dictate. By 1945 the tenets of the Movement had come to dominate mainstream architecture, and by the early 1950s, to dominate architectural criticism—architects whose work seemed not to advance the evolution of the Modern Movement tended to be dismissed by proponents of Modernism. On the other hand, when architects were identified as innovators—as was the case with Otto Wagner, or the young Frank Lloyd Wright—attention was drawn to only those features of their work that were "Modern" ; other aspects were conveniently ignored. The decline of the Modern Movement later in the twentieth century occurred partly as a result of Modernist architects' ignorance of building methods, and partly because Modernist architects were reluctant to admit that their concerns were chiefly aesthetic. Moreover, the building industry was evolving in a direction Modernists had not anticipated: it was more specialized and the process of construction was much more fragmented than in the past. Up until the twentieth century, construction had been carried out by a relatively small number of tradespeople, but as the building industry evolved, buildings came to be built by many specialized subcontractors working independently. The architect's design not only had to accommodate a sequence of independent operations, but now had to reflect the allowable degree of inaccuracy of the different trades. However, one of the chief construction ideals of the Modern Movement was to "honestly" expose structural materials such as steel and concrete. To do this and still produce a visually acceptable interior called for an unrealistically high level of craftmanship. Exposure of a building's internal structural elements, if it could be achieved at all, could only be accomplished at considerable cost— hence the well-founded reputation of Modern architecture as prohibitively expensive. As Postmodern architects recognized, the need to expose structural elements imposed unnecessary limitations on building design. The unwillingness of architects of the Modern Movement to abandon their ideals contributed to the decline of interest in the Modern Movement.

200410_1-RC_4_26

The author of the passage mentions Otto Wagner and the young Frank Lloyd Wright (lines 27–28) primarily as examples of

The proponents of the Modern Movement in architecture considered that, compared with the historical styles that it replaced, Modernist architecture more accurately reflected the functional spirit of twentieth-century technology and was better suited to the newest building methods. It is ironic, then, that the Movement fostered an ideology of design that proved to be at odds with the way buildings were really built. The tenacious adherence of Modernist architects and critics to this ideology was in part responsible for the Movement's decline. Originating in the 1920s as a marginal, almost bohemian art movement, the Modern Movement was never very popular with the public, but this very lack of popular support produced in Modernist architects a high-minded sense of mission—not content merely to interpret the needs of the client, these architects now sought to persuade, to educate, and, if necessary, to dictate. By 1945 the tenets of the Movement had come to dominate mainstream architecture, and by the early 1950s, to dominate architectural criticism—architects whose work seemed not to advance the evolution of the Modern Movement tended to be dismissed by proponents of Modernism. On the other hand, when architects were identified as innovators—as was the case with Otto Wagner, or the young Frank Lloyd Wright—attention was drawn to only those features of their work that were "Modern" ; other aspects were conveniently ignored. The decline of the Modern Movement later in the twentieth century occurred partly as a result of Modernist architects' ignorance of building methods, and partly because Modernist architects were reluctant to admit that their concerns were chiefly aesthetic. Moreover, the building industry was evolving in a direction Modernists had not anticipated: it was more specialized and the process of construction was much more fragmented than in the past. Up until the twentieth century, construction had been carried out by a relatively small number of tradespeople, but as the building industry evolved, buildings came to be built by many specialized subcontractors working independently. The architect's design not only had to accommodate a sequence of independent operations, but now had to reflect the allowable degree of inaccuracy of the different trades. However, one of the chief construction ideals of the Modern Movement was to "honestly" expose structural materials such as steel and concrete. To do this and still produce a visually acceptable interior called for an unrealistically high level of craftmanship. Exposure of a building's internal structural elements, if it could be achieved at all, could only be accomplished at considerable cost— hence the well-founded reputation of Modern architecture as prohibitively expensive. As Postmodern architects recognized, the need to expose structural elements imposed unnecessary limitations on building design. The unwillingness of architects of the Modern Movement to abandon their ideals contributed to the decline of interest in the Modern Movement.

200410_1-RC_4_27

The author of the passage is primarily concerned with

A number of natural disasters in recent years— such as earthquakes, major storms, and floods—that have affected large populations of people have forced relief agencies, communities, and entire nations to reevaluate the ways in which they respond in the aftermaths of such disasters. They believe that traditional ways of dealing with disasters have proved ineffective on several occasions and, in some cases, have been destructive rather than helpful to the communities hit by these sudden and unexpected crises. Traditionally, relief has been based on the premise that aid in postdisaster situations is most effective if given in the immediate aftermath of an event. A high priority also has been placed on the quantity of aid materials, programs, and personnel, in the belief that the negative impact of a disaster can be counteracted by a large and rapid infusion of aid. Critics claim that such an approach often creates a new set of difficulties for already hard-hit communities. Teams of uninvited experts and personnel—all of whom need food and shelter—as well as uncoordinated shipments of goods and the establishment of programs inappropriate to local needs can quickly lead to a secondary "disaster" as already strained local infrastructures break down under the pressure of this large influx of resources. In some instances, tons of food have disappeared into local markets for resale, and, with inadequate accounting procedures, billions of dollars in aid money have gone unaccounted for. To develop a more effective approach, experts recommend shifting the focus to the long term. A response that produces lasting benefit, these experts claim, requires that community members define the form and method of aid that are most appropriate to their needs. Grassroots dialogue designed to facilitate preparedness should be encouraged in disaster-prone communities long before the onset of a crisis, so that in a disaster's immediate aftermath, relief agencies can rely on members of affected communities to take the lead. The practical effect of this approach is that aid takes the form of a response to the stated desires of those affected rather than an immediate, though less informed, action on their behalf. Though this proposal appears sound, its success depends on how an important constituency, namely donors, will respond. Historically, donors—individuals, corporations, foundations, and governmental bodies—have been most likely to respond only in the immediate aftermath of a crisis. However, communities affected by disasters typically have several long-term needs such as the rebuilding of houses and roads, and thus the months and years after a disaster are also crucial. Donors that incorporate dialogue with members of affected communities into their relief plans could foster strategies that more efficiently utilize immediate aid as well as provide for the difficulties facing communities in the years after a disaster.

200412_2-RC_1_1

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

A number of natural disasters in recent years— such as earthquakes, major storms, and floods—that have affected large populations of people have forced relief agencies, communities, and entire nations to reevaluate the ways in which they respond in the aftermaths of such disasters. They believe that traditional ways of dealing with disasters have proved ineffective on several occasions and, in some cases, have been destructive rather than helpful to the communities hit by these sudden and unexpected crises. Traditionally, relief has been based on the premise that aid in postdisaster situations is most effective if given in the immediate aftermath of an event. A high priority also has been placed on the quantity of aid materials, programs, and personnel, in the belief that the negative impact of a disaster can be counteracted by a large and rapid infusion of aid. Critics claim that such an approach often creates a new set of difficulties for already hard-hit communities. Teams of uninvited experts and personnel—all of whom need food and shelter—as well as uncoordinated shipments of goods and the establishment of programs inappropriate to local needs can quickly lead to a secondary "disaster" as already strained local infrastructures break down under the pressure of this large influx of resources. In some instances, tons of food have disappeared into local markets for resale, and, with inadequate accounting procedures, billions of dollars in aid money have gone unaccounted for. To develop a more effective approach, experts recommend shifting the focus to the long term. A response that produces lasting benefit, these experts claim, requires that community members define the form and method of aid that are most appropriate to their needs. Grassroots dialogue designed to facilitate preparedness should be encouraged in disaster-prone communities long before the onset of a crisis, so that in a disaster's immediate aftermath, relief agencies can rely on members of affected communities to take the lead. The practical effect of this approach is that aid takes the form of a response to the stated desires of those affected rather than an immediate, though less informed, action on their behalf. Though this proposal appears sound, its success depends on how an important constituency, namely donors, will respond. Historically, donors—individuals, corporations, foundations, and governmental bodies—have been most likely to respond only in the immediate aftermath of a crisis. However, communities affected by disasters typically have several long-term needs such as the rebuilding of houses and roads, and thus the months and years after a disaster are also crucial. Donors that incorporate dialogue with members of affected communities into their relief plans could foster strategies that more efficiently utilize immediate aid as well as provide for the difficulties facing communities in the years after a disaster.

200412_2-RC_1_2

Which one of the following examples best illustrates the type of disaster response recommended by the experts mentioned in the third paragraph?

A number of natural disasters in recent years— such as earthquakes, major storms, and floods—that have affected large populations of people have forced relief agencies, communities, and entire nations to reevaluate the ways in which they respond in the aftermaths of such disasters. They believe that traditional ways of dealing with disasters have proved ineffective on several occasions and, in some cases, have been destructive rather than helpful to the communities hit by these sudden and unexpected crises. Traditionally, relief has been based on the premise that aid in postdisaster situations is most effective if given in the immediate aftermath of an event. A high priority also has been placed on the quantity of aid materials, programs, and personnel, in the belief that the negative impact of a disaster can be counteracted by a large and rapid infusion of aid. Critics claim that such an approach often creates a new set of difficulties for already hard-hit communities. Teams of uninvited experts and personnel—all of whom need food and shelter—as well as uncoordinated shipments of goods and the establishment of programs inappropriate to local needs can quickly lead to a secondary "disaster" as already strained local infrastructures break down under the pressure of this large influx of resources. In some instances, tons of food have disappeared into local markets for resale, and, with inadequate accounting procedures, billions of dollars in aid money have gone unaccounted for. To develop a more effective approach, experts recommend shifting the focus to the long term. A response that produces lasting benefit, these experts claim, requires that community members define the form and method of aid that are most appropriate to their needs. Grassroots dialogue designed to facilitate preparedness should be encouraged in disaster-prone communities long before the onset of a crisis, so that in a disaster's immediate aftermath, relief agencies can rely on members of affected communities to take the lead. The practical effect of this approach is that aid takes the form of a response to the stated desires of those affected rather than an immediate, though less informed, action on their behalf. Though this proposal appears sound, its success depends on how an important constituency, namely donors, will respond. Historically, donors—individuals, corporations, foundations, and governmental bodies—have been most likely to respond only in the immediate aftermath of a crisis. However, communities affected by disasters typically have several long-term needs such as the rebuilding of houses and roads, and thus the months and years after a disaster are also crucial. Donors that incorporate dialogue with members of affected communities into their relief plans could foster strategies that more efficiently utilize immediate aid as well as provide for the difficulties facing communities in the years after a disaster.

200412_2-RC_1_3

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

A number of natural disasters in recent years— such as earthquakes, major storms, and floods—that have affected large populations of people have forced relief agencies, communities, and entire nations to reevaluate the ways in which they respond in the aftermaths of such disasters. They believe that traditional ways of dealing with disasters have proved ineffective on several occasions and, in some cases, have been destructive rather than helpful to the communities hit by these sudden and unexpected crises. Traditionally, relief has been based on the premise that aid in postdisaster situations is most effective if given in the immediate aftermath of an event. A high priority also has been placed on the quantity of aid materials, programs, and personnel, in the belief that the negative impact of a disaster can be counteracted by a large and rapid infusion of aid. Critics claim that such an approach often creates a new set of difficulties for already hard-hit communities. Teams of uninvited experts and personnel—all of whom need food and shelter—as well as uncoordinated shipments of goods and the establishment of programs inappropriate to local needs can quickly lead to a secondary "disaster" as already strained local infrastructures break down under the pressure of this large influx of resources. In some instances, tons of food have disappeared into local markets for resale, and, with inadequate accounting procedures, billions of dollars in aid money have gone unaccounted for. To develop a more effective approach, experts recommend shifting the focus to the long term. A response that produces lasting benefit, these experts claim, requires that community members define the form and method of aid that are most appropriate to their needs. Grassroots dialogue designed to facilitate preparedness should be encouraged in disaster-prone communities long before the onset of a crisis, so that in a disaster's immediate aftermath, relief agencies can rely on members of affected communities to take the lead. The practical effect of this approach is that aid takes the form of a response to the stated desires of those affected rather than an immediate, though less informed, action on their behalf. Though this proposal appears sound, its success depends on how an important constituency, namely donors, will respond. Historically, donors—individuals, corporations, foundations, and governmental bodies—have been most likely to respond only in the immediate aftermath of a crisis. However, communities affected by disasters typically have several long-term needs such as the rebuilding of houses and roads, and thus the months and years after a disaster are also crucial. Donors that incorporate dialogue with members of affected communities into their relief plans could foster strategies that more efficiently utilize immediate aid as well as provide for the difficulties facing communities in the years after a disaster.

200412_2-RC_1_4

The author discusses donors in the final paragraph primarily in order to

A number of natural disasters in recent years— such as earthquakes, major storms, and floods—that have affected large populations of people have forced relief agencies, communities, and entire nations to reevaluate the ways in which they respond in the aftermaths of such disasters. They believe that traditional ways of dealing with disasters have proved ineffective on several occasions and, in some cases, have been destructive rather than helpful to the communities hit by these sudden and unexpected crises. Traditionally, relief has been based on the premise that aid in postdisaster situations is most effective if given in the immediate aftermath of an event. A high priority also has been placed on the quantity of aid materials, programs, and personnel, in the belief that the negative impact of a disaster can be counteracted by a large and rapid infusion of aid. Critics claim that such an approach often creates a new set of difficulties for already hard-hit communities. Teams of uninvited experts and personnel—all of whom need food and shelter—as well as uncoordinated shipments of goods and the establishment of programs inappropriate to local needs can quickly lead to a secondary "disaster" as already strained local infrastructures break down under the pressure of this large influx of resources. In some instances, tons of food have disappeared into local markets for resale, and, with inadequate accounting procedures, billions of dollars in aid money have gone unaccounted for. To develop a more effective approach, experts recommend shifting the focus to the long term. A response that produces lasting benefit, these experts claim, requires that community members define the form and method of aid that are most appropriate to their needs. Grassroots dialogue designed to facilitate preparedness should be encouraged in disaster-prone communities long before the onset of a crisis, so that in a disaster's immediate aftermath, relief agencies can rely on members of affected communities to take the lead. The practical effect of this approach is that aid takes the form of a response to the stated desires of those affected rather than an immediate, though less informed, action on their behalf. Though this proposal appears sound, its success depends on how an important constituency, namely donors, will respond. Historically, donors—individuals, corporations, foundations, and governmental bodies—have been most likely to respond only in the immediate aftermath of a crisis. However, communities affected by disasters typically have several long-term needs such as the rebuilding of houses and roads, and thus the months and years after a disaster are also crucial. Donors that incorporate dialogue with members of affected communities into their relief plans could foster strategies that more efficiently utilize immediate aid as well as provide for the difficulties facing communities in the years after a disaster.

200412_2-RC_1_5

It can be inferred from the passage that the author would be most likely to view a shift toward a more long-term perspective in disaster relief efforts as which one of the following?

A number of natural disasters in recent years— such as earthquakes, major storms, and floods—that have affected large populations of people have forced relief agencies, communities, and entire nations to reevaluate the ways in which they respond in the aftermaths of such disasters. They believe that traditional ways of dealing with disasters have proved ineffective on several occasions and, in some cases, have been destructive rather than helpful to the communities hit by these sudden and unexpected crises. Traditionally, relief has been based on the premise that aid in postdisaster situations is most effective if given in the immediate aftermath of an event. A high priority also has been placed on the quantity of aid materials, programs, and personnel, in the belief that the negative impact of a disaster can be counteracted by a large and rapid infusion of aid. Critics claim that such an approach often creates a new set of difficulties for already hard-hit communities. Teams of uninvited experts and personnel—all of whom need food and shelter—as well as uncoordinated shipments of goods and the establishment of programs inappropriate to local needs can quickly lead to a secondary "disaster" as already strained local infrastructures break down under the pressure of this large influx of resources. In some instances, tons of food have disappeared into local markets for resale, and, with inadequate accounting procedures, billions of dollars in aid money have gone unaccounted for. To develop a more effective approach, experts recommend shifting the focus to the long term. A response that produces lasting benefit, these experts claim, requires that community members define the form and method of aid that are most appropriate to their needs. Grassroots dialogue designed to facilitate preparedness should be encouraged in disaster-prone communities long before the onset of a crisis, so that in a disaster's immediate aftermath, relief agencies can rely on members of affected communities to take the lead. The practical effect of this approach is that aid takes the form of a response to the stated desires of those affected rather than an immediate, though less informed, action on their behalf. Though this proposal appears sound, its success depends on how an important constituency, namely donors, will respond. Historically, donors—individuals, corporations, foundations, and governmental bodies—have been most likely to respond only in the immediate aftermath of a crisis. However, communities affected by disasters typically have several long-term needs such as the rebuilding of houses and roads, and thus the months and years after a disaster are also crucial. Donors that incorporate dialogue with members of affected communities into their relief plans could foster strategies that more efficiently utilize immediate aid as well as provide for the difficulties facing communities in the years after a disaster.

200412_2-RC_1_6

Which one of the following inferences about natural disasters and relief efforts is most strongly supported by the passage?

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_7

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

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_8

Which one of the following most accurately describes the organization of the material presented in the passage?

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_9

The passage cites which one of the following as a value at the heart of the Hippocratic oath that should present no difficulty to most reformers?

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_10

The author's primary purpose in the passage is to

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_11

Based on information in the passage, it can be inferred that which one of the following sentences could most logically be added to the passage as a concluding sentence?

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_12

Each of the following is mentioned in the passage as a criticism of the Hippocratic oath EXCEPT:

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_13

Which one of the following can most accurately be used to describe the author's attitude toward critics of the Hippocratic oath?

The moral precepts embodied in the Hippocratic oath, which physicians standardly affirm upon beginning medical practice, have long been considered the immutable bedrock of medical ethics, binding physicians in a moral community that reaches across temporal, cultural, and national barriers. Until very recently the promises expressed in that oath—for example to act primarily for the benefit and not the harm of patients and to conform to various standards of professional conduct including the preservation of patients' confidences—even seemed impervious to the powerful scientific and societal forces challenging it. Critics argue that the oath is outdated; its fixed moral rules, they say, are incompatible with more flexible modern ideas about ethics. It also encourages doctors to adopt an authoritarian stance that depreciates the privacy and autonomy of the patient. Furthermore, its emphasis on the individual patient without regard for the wider social context frustrates the physician's emerging role as gatekeeper in managed care plans and impedes competitive market forces, which, some critics believe, should determine the quality, price, and distribution of health care as they do those of other commodities. The oath is also faulted for its omissions: its failure to mention such vital contemporary issues as human experimentation and the relationships of physicians to other health professionals. Some respected opponents even cite historical doubts about the oath's origin and authorship, presenting evidence that it was formulated by a small group of reformist physicians in ancient Greece and that for centuries it was not uniformly accepted by medical practitioners. This historical issue may be dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to the oath's current appropriateness. Regardless of the specific origin of its text—which, admittedly, is at best uncertain—those in each generation who critically appraise its content and judge it to express valid principles of medical ethics become, in a more meaningful sense, its authors. More importantly, even the more substantive, morally based arguments concerning contemporary values and newly relevant issues cannot negate the patients' need for assurance that physicians will pursue appropriate goals in treatment in accordance with generally acceptable standards of professionalism. To fulfill that need, the core value of beneficence—which does not actually conflict with most reformers' purposes—should be retained, with adaptations at the oath's periphery by some combination of revision, supplementation, and modern interpretation. In fact, there is already a tradition of peripheral reinterpretation of traditional wording; for example, the oath's vaguely and archaically worded proscription against "cutting for the stone" may once have served to forbid surgery, but with today's safer and more effective surgical techniques it is understood to function as a promise to practice within the confines of one's expertise, which remains a necessary safeguard for patients' safety and well-being.

200412_2-RC_2_14

Which one of the following would be most suitable as a title for this passage if it were to appear as an editorial piece?

A lichen consists of a fungus living in symbiosis (i.e., a mutually beneficial relationship) with an alga. Although most branches of the complex evolutionary family tree of fungi have been well established, the evolutionary origins of lichen-forming fungi have been a mystery. But a new DNA study has revealed the relationship of lichen-forming fungi to several previously known branches of the fungus family tree. The study reveals that, far from being oddities, lichen-forming fungi are close relatives of such common fungi as brewer's yeast, morel mushrooms, and the fungus that causes Dutch elm disease. This accounts for the visible similarity of certain lichens to more recognizable fungi such as mushrooms. In general, fungi present complications for the researcher. Fungi are usually parasitic or symbiotic, and researchers are often unsure whether they are examining fungal DNA or that of the associated organism. But lichen-forming fungi are especially difficult to study. They have few distinguishing characteristics of shape or structure, and they are unusually difficult to isolate from their partner algae, with which they have a particularly delicate symbiosis. In some cases the alga is wedged between layers of fungal tissue; in others, the fungus grows through the alga's cell walls in order to take nourishment, and the tissues of the two organisms are entirely enmeshed and inseparable. As a result, lichen-forming fungi have long been difficult to classify definitively within the fungus family. By default they were thus considered a separate grouping of fungi with an unknown evolutionary origin. But, using new analytical tools that allow them to isolate the DNA of fungi in parasitic or symbiotic relationships, researchers were able to establish the DNA sequence in a certain gene found in 75 species of fungi, including 10 species of lichen-forming fungi. Based on these analyses, the researchers found 5 branches on the fungus family tree to which varieties of lichen-forming fungi belong. Furthermore, the researchers stress that it is likely that as more types of lichen-forming fungi are analyzed, they will be found to belong to still more branches of the fungus family tree. One implication of the new research is that it provides evidence to help overturn the long-standing evolutionary assumption that parasitic interactions inevitably evolve over time to a greater benignity and eventually to symbiosis so that the parasites will not destroy their hosts. The addition of lichen-forming fungi to positions along branches of the fungus family tree indicates that this assumption does not hold for fungi. Fungi both harmful and benign can now be found both early and late in fungus evolutionary history. Given the new layout of the fungus family tree resulting from the lichen study, it appears that fungi can evolve toward mutualism and then just as easily turn back again toward parasitism.

200412_2-RC_3_15

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

A lichen consists of a fungus living in symbiosis (i.e., a mutually beneficial relationship) with an alga. Although most branches of the complex evolutionary family tree of fungi have been well established, the evolutionary origins of lichen-forming fungi have been a mystery. But a new DNA study has revealed the relationship of lichen-forming fungi to several previously known branches of the fungus family tree. The study reveals that, far from being oddities, lichen-forming fungi are close relatives of such common fungi as brewer's yeast, morel mushrooms, and the fungus that causes Dutch elm disease. This accounts for the visible similarity of certain lichens to more recognizable fungi such as mushrooms. In general, fungi present complications for the researcher. Fungi are usually parasitic or symbiotic, and researchers are often unsure whether they are examining fungal DNA or that of the associated organism. But lichen-forming fungi are especially difficult to study. They have few distinguishing characteristics of shape or structure, and they are unusually difficult to isolate from their partner algae, with which they have a particularly delicate symbiosis. In some cases the alga is wedged between layers of fungal tissue; in others, the fungus grows through the alga's cell walls in order to take nourishment, and the tissues of the two organisms are entirely enmeshed and inseparable. As a result, lichen-forming fungi have long been difficult to classify definitively within the fungus family. By default they were thus considered a separate grouping of fungi with an unknown evolutionary origin. But, using new analytical tools that allow them to isolate the DNA of fungi in parasitic or symbiotic relationships, researchers were able to establish the DNA sequence in a certain gene found in 75 species of fungi, including 10 species of lichen-forming fungi. Based on these analyses, the researchers found 5 branches on the fungus family tree to which varieties of lichen-forming fungi belong. Furthermore, the researchers stress that it is likely that as more types of lichen-forming fungi are analyzed, they will be found to belong to still more branches of the fungus family tree. One implication of the new research is that it provides evidence to help overturn the long-standing evolutionary assumption that parasitic interactions inevitably evolve over time to a greater benignity and eventually to symbiosis so that the parasites will not destroy their hosts. The addition of lichen-forming fungi to positions along branches of the fungus family tree indicates that this assumption does not hold for fungi. Fungi both harmful and benign can now be found both early and late in fungus evolutionary history. Given the new layout of the fungus family tree resulting from the lichen study, it appears that fungi can evolve toward mutualism and then just as easily turn back again toward parasitism.

200412_2-RC_3_16

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's purpose in the last paragraph of the passage?