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Nontraditional black women filmmakers share with the broader community of radical filmmakers a problematic relation to mainstream, realist cinematic practice. Realist filmmakers manipulate the use of the camera and techniques of editing and lighting in ways that create the illusion that cinema is like life, that it may indeed be the same as life. In contrast, avant-garde and many minority and feminist filmmakers who seek to tell new stories resist the conventions of cinematic realism precisely because these practices conceal the artificiality of the filmmaking process, thereby implying that narrative structures, and thus social relations, are inevitable, and that circumstances are as they should be. For example, precisely because one might expect that a scene depicting a family dinner would entail a continuous view of several people seated together eating and conversing, an avant-garde filmmaker might intersperse images of the dining family with a seemingly arbitrary image—people standing in a breadline during the Depression of the 1930s, for example. The outcome, according to many film theorists, is that our notion of reality is violated: the images do not make immediate sense, and we are therefore forced to question our convictions about the "reality" to which we are committed. The very techniques that create the illusion of visual continuity, some theorists say, smooth over contradictions and incoherences that might reflect a reality that Hollywood—and the majority culture that is its audience—does not want to admit or know. The ideological content of these conservative cinematic techniques notwithstanding, some nontraditional black women filmmakers do tend to explore the formal possibilities of realism in documentaries instead of experimenting with more daring modes. They may choose to work within the realist form because it is more accessible to a broad audience, or because of the financial constraints under which they labor. It is important to emphasize, however, that the prevailing notion that such filmmakers cannot be called experimental, because only technical experimentation counts as "experimental," places an undue emphasis on form at the expense of content. A realist work that centers on a nontraditional subject might rightfully be called experimental in its own way. For example, Fannie's Film (1981) by Fronza Woods provides the opportunity for a working woman to tell her own story. This film belongs to a group of films that, by presenting the stories of "ordinary" women whose experiences have usually been trivialized or ignored by mainstream media, expose the thematic assumptions and stylistic conventions of realistic filmmaking. Documentaries have also attracted these directors because documentaries provide opportunities for revising the list of traditionally acknowledged prominent figures by creating more accounts of black public figures. Films like Michelle Parkerson's . . . But Then, She's Betty Carter (1980), by examining and preserving the lives and works of the visual and performing artists who are their subjects, urge their audiences to question their own expectations about who gains public recognition and why.

199602_2-RC_2_11

Each of the following is accomplished by one of the documentary films described by the author of the passage EXCEPT:

Nontraditional black women filmmakers share with the broader community of radical filmmakers a problematic relation to mainstream, realist cinematic practice. Realist filmmakers manipulate the use of the camera and techniques of editing and lighting in ways that create the illusion that cinema is like life, that it may indeed be the same as life. In contrast, avant-garde and many minority and feminist filmmakers who seek to tell new stories resist the conventions of cinematic realism precisely because these practices conceal the artificiality of the filmmaking process, thereby implying that narrative structures, and thus social relations, are inevitable, and that circumstances are as they should be. For example, precisely because one might expect that a scene depicting a family dinner would entail a continuous view of several people seated together eating and conversing, an avant-garde filmmaker might intersperse images of the dining family with a seemingly arbitrary image—people standing in a breadline during the Depression of the 1930s, for example. The outcome, according to many film theorists, is that our notion of reality is violated: the images do not make immediate sense, and we are therefore forced to question our convictions about the "reality" to which we are committed. The very techniques that create the illusion of visual continuity, some theorists say, smooth over contradictions and incoherences that might reflect a reality that Hollywood—and the majority culture that is its audience—does not want to admit or know. The ideological content of these conservative cinematic techniques notwithstanding, some nontraditional black women filmmakers do tend to explore the formal possibilities of realism in documentaries instead of experimenting with more daring modes. They may choose to work within the realist form because it is more accessible to a broad audience, or because of the financial constraints under which they labor. It is important to emphasize, however, that the prevailing notion that such filmmakers cannot be called experimental, because only technical experimentation counts as "experimental," places an undue emphasis on form at the expense of content. A realist work that centers on a nontraditional subject might rightfully be called experimental in its own way. For example, Fannie's Film (1981) by Fronza Woods provides the opportunity for a working woman to tell her own story. This film belongs to a group of films that, by presenting the stories of "ordinary" women whose experiences have usually been trivialized or ignored by mainstream media, expose the thematic assumptions and stylistic conventions of realistic filmmaking. Documentaries have also attracted these directors because documentaries provide opportunities for revising the list of traditionally acknowledged prominent figures by creating more accounts of black public figures. Films like Michelle Parkerson's . . . But Then, She's Betty Carter (1980), by examining and preserving the lives and works of the visual and performing artists who are their subjects, urge their audiences to question their own expectations about who gains public recognition and why.

199602_2-RC_2_12

It can be inferred from the passage that the theorists referred to in line 27 would most probably agree with which one of the following statements about mainstream filmmakers?

Nontraditional black women filmmakers share with the broader community of radical filmmakers a problematic relation to mainstream, realist cinematic practice. Realist filmmakers manipulate the use of the camera and techniques of editing and lighting in ways that create the illusion that cinema is like life, that it may indeed be the same as life. In contrast, avant-garde and many minority and feminist filmmakers who seek to tell new stories resist the conventions of cinematic realism precisely because these practices conceal the artificiality of the filmmaking process, thereby implying that narrative structures, and thus social relations, are inevitable, and that circumstances are as they should be. For example, precisely because one might expect that a scene depicting a family dinner would entail a continuous view of several people seated together eating and conversing, an avant-garde filmmaker might intersperse images of the dining family with a seemingly arbitrary image—people standing in a breadline during the Depression of the 1930s, for example. The outcome, according to many film theorists, is that our notion of reality is violated: the images do not make immediate sense, and we are therefore forced to question our convictions about the "reality" to which we are committed. The very techniques that create the illusion of visual continuity, some theorists say, smooth over contradictions and incoherences that might reflect a reality that Hollywood—and the majority culture that is its audience—does not want to admit or know. The ideological content of these conservative cinematic techniques notwithstanding, some nontraditional black women filmmakers do tend to explore the formal possibilities of realism in documentaries instead of experimenting with more daring modes. They may choose to work within the realist form because it is more accessible to a broad audience, or because of the financial constraints under which they labor. It is important to emphasize, however, that the prevailing notion that such filmmakers cannot be called experimental, because only technical experimentation counts as "experimental," places an undue emphasis on form at the expense of content. A realist work that centers on a nontraditional subject might rightfully be called experimental in its own way. For example, Fannie's Film (1981) by Fronza Woods provides the opportunity for a working woman to tell her own story. This film belongs to a group of films that, by presenting the stories of "ordinary" women whose experiences have usually been trivialized or ignored by mainstream media, expose the thematic assumptions and stylistic conventions of realistic filmmaking. Documentaries have also attracted these directors because documentaries provide opportunities for revising the list of traditionally acknowledged prominent figures by creating more accounts of black public figures. Films like Michelle Parkerson's . . . But Then, She's Betty Carter (1980), by examining and preserving the lives and works of the visual and performing artists who are their subjects, urge their audiences to question their own expectations about who gains public recognition and why.

199602_2-RC_2_13

The primary purpose of the passage is to

Like Charles Darwin, Alfred Wegener revolutionized an entire science. Unlike Darwin's ideas, which still stir up much controversy, Wegener's theory of drifting continents is accepted almost without question, but it did not succeed without a struggle. In 1912 Wegener suggested that Africa and South America are estranged pieces of a single, ancient supercontinent, Pangaea, that had drifted apart, leaving the Atlantic Ocean between them. However, even Wegener believed that geological wear and tear over the ages would have damaged the fine detail of ancient coastlines, destroying the best evidence for drift. He never tested the fit between the African and South American coastlines with any exactitude, and for a time his ideas were virtually ignored. In 1924 Harold Jeffreys, who would become one of the strongest critics of the theory, dismissed it in his landmark book The Earth. Apparently after casually observing the shorelines on a globe, Jeffreys concluded that the fit between Africa and South America was very poor. Disturbed by Jeffreys' obviously perfunctory observation, S. W. Carey used careful techniques of geometric projection to correct, better than most maps do, for the fact that the continents' margins lie on a sphere rather than on a flat surface. He found a remarkably close fit. At about the same time, Keith Runcorn found other evidence for drift. When volcanic lava cools and hardens into basalt, it is magnetized by the earth's own magnetic field. The rock's poles become aligned with the earth's magnetic poles. Though the planet's poles have wandered over the past few hundred million years, the magnetic field of each basalt fragment is still aimed the way the earth's poles were at the time the rock was formed. Although one would expect that the magnetic fields of rocks of the same age from any continent would all be aligned the way the earth's magnetic field was aligned at that time, the magnetic fields of basalts in North America are now aligned quite differently from rocks formed in the same epoch in Europe. Thus, the rocks provided clear evidence that the continents had drifted with respect to each other. True to form, Jeffreys brusquely rejected Runcorn's studies. His casual disdain for such observational data led some field geologists to suggest that his classic should be retitled An Earth. In 1966 compelling proof that the seafloor spreads from the midocean ridges confirmed the hypothesis that molten rock wells up at these ridges from deep within the earth and repaves the seafloor as giant crustal plates move apart. Thus, seafloor spreading not only explained the long-standing puzzle of why the ocean basins are so much younger than the continents, but also provided evidence that the plates, and so the continents on them, move. Overnight, plate tectonic theory, with continental drift, became the consensus view.

199602_2-RC_3_14

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

Like Charles Darwin, Alfred Wegener revolutionized an entire science. Unlike Darwin's ideas, which still stir up much controversy, Wegener's theory of drifting continents is accepted almost without question, but it did not succeed without a struggle. In 1912 Wegener suggested that Africa and South America are estranged pieces of a single, ancient supercontinent, Pangaea, that had drifted apart, leaving the Atlantic Ocean between them. However, even Wegener believed that geological wear and tear over the ages would have damaged the fine detail of ancient coastlines, destroying the best evidence for drift. He never tested the fit between the African and South American coastlines with any exactitude, and for a time his ideas were virtually ignored. In 1924 Harold Jeffreys, who would become one of the strongest critics of the theory, dismissed it in his landmark book The Earth. Apparently after casually observing the shorelines on a globe, Jeffreys concluded that the fit between Africa and South America was very poor. Disturbed by Jeffreys' obviously perfunctory observation, S. W. Carey used careful techniques of geometric projection to correct, better than most maps do, for the fact that the continents' margins lie on a sphere rather than on a flat surface. He found a remarkably close fit. At about the same time, Keith Runcorn found other evidence for drift. When volcanic lava cools and hardens into basalt, it is magnetized by the earth's own magnetic field. The rock's poles become aligned with the earth's magnetic poles. Though the planet's poles have wandered over the past few hundred million years, the magnetic field of each basalt fragment is still aimed the way the earth's poles were at the time the rock was formed. Although one would expect that the magnetic fields of rocks of the same age from any continent would all be aligned the way the earth's magnetic field was aligned at that time, the magnetic fields of basalts in North America are now aligned quite differently from rocks formed in the same epoch in Europe. Thus, the rocks provided clear evidence that the continents had drifted with respect to each other. True to form, Jeffreys brusquely rejected Runcorn's studies. His casual disdain for such observational data led some field geologists to suggest that his classic should be retitled An Earth. In 1966 compelling proof that the seafloor spreads from the midocean ridges confirmed the hypothesis that molten rock wells up at these ridges from deep within the earth and repaves the seafloor as giant crustal plates move apart. Thus, seafloor spreading not only explained the long-standing puzzle of why the ocean basins are so much younger than the continents, but also provided evidence that the plates, and so the continents on them, move. Overnight, plate tectonic theory, with continental drift, became the consensus view.

199602_2-RC_3_15

Jeffreys' approach to Wegener's theory is most like the approach of which one of the following?

Like Charles Darwin, Alfred Wegener revolutionized an entire science. Unlike Darwin's ideas, which still stir up much controversy, Wegener's theory of drifting continents is accepted almost without question, but it did not succeed without a struggle. In 1912 Wegener suggested that Africa and South America are estranged pieces of a single, ancient supercontinent, Pangaea, that had drifted apart, leaving the Atlantic Ocean between them. However, even Wegener believed that geological wear and tear over the ages would have damaged the fine detail of ancient coastlines, destroying the best evidence for drift. He never tested the fit between the African and South American coastlines with any exactitude, and for a time his ideas were virtually ignored. In 1924 Harold Jeffreys, who would become one of the strongest critics of the theory, dismissed it in his landmark book The Earth. Apparently after casually observing the shorelines on a globe, Jeffreys concluded that the fit between Africa and South America was very poor. Disturbed by Jeffreys' obviously perfunctory observation, S. W. Carey used careful techniques of geometric projection to correct, better than most maps do, for the fact that the continents' margins lie on a sphere rather than on a flat surface. He found a remarkably close fit. At about the same time, Keith Runcorn found other evidence for drift. When volcanic lava cools and hardens into basalt, it is magnetized by the earth's own magnetic field. The rock's poles become aligned with the earth's magnetic poles. Though the planet's poles have wandered over the past few hundred million years, the magnetic field of each basalt fragment is still aimed the way the earth's poles were at the time the rock was formed. Although one would expect that the magnetic fields of rocks of the same age from any continent would all be aligned the way the earth's magnetic field was aligned at that time, the magnetic fields of basalts in North America are now aligned quite differently from rocks formed in the same epoch in Europe. Thus, the rocks provided clear evidence that the continents had drifted with respect to each other. True to form, Jeffreys brusquely rejected Runcorn's studies. His casual disdain for such observational data led some field geologists to suggest that his classic should be retitled An Earth. In 1966 compelling proof that the seafloor spreads from the midocean ridges confirmed the hypothesis that molten rock wells up at these ridges from deep within the earth and repaves the seafloor as giant crustal plates move apart. Thus, seafloor spreading not only explained the long-standing puzzle of why the ocean basins are so much younger than the continents, but also provided evidence that the plates, and so the continents on them, move. Overnight, plate tectonic theory, with continental drift, became the consensus view.

199602_2-RC_3_16

According to the passage, evidence of seafloor spreading helped to explain which one of the following?

Like Charles Darwin, Alfred Wegener revolutionized an entire science. Unlike Darwin's ideas, which still stir up much controversy, Wegener's theory of drifting continents is accepted almost without question, but it did not succeed without a struggle. In 1912 Wegener suggested that Africa and South America are estranged pieces of a single, ancient supercontinent, Pangaea, that had drifted apart, leaving the Atlantic Ocean between them. However, even Wegener believed that geological wear and tear over the ages would have damaged the fine detail of ancient coastlines, destroying the best evidence for drift. He never tested the fit between the African and South American coastlines with any exactitude, and for a time his ideas were virtually ignored. In 1924 Harold Jeffreys, who would become one of the strongest critics of the theory, dismissed it in his landmark book The Earth. Apparently after casually observing the shorelines on a globe, Jeffreys concluded that the fit between Africa and South America was very poor. Disturbed by Jeffreys' obviously perfunctory observation, S. W. Carey used careful techniques of geometric projection to correct, better than most maps do, for the fact that the continents' margins lie on a sphere rather than on a flat surface. He found a remarkably close fit. At about the same time, Keith Runcorn found other evidence for drift. When volcanic lava cools and hardens into basalt, it is magnetized by the earth's own magnetic field. The rock's poles become aligned with the earth's magnetic poles. Though the planet's poles have wandered over the past few hundred million years, the magnetic field of each basalt fragment is still aimed the way the earth's poles were at the time the rock was formed. Although one would expect that the magnetic fields of rocks of the same age from any continent would all be aligned the way the earth's magnetic field was aligned at that time, the magnetic fields of basalts in North America are now aligned quite differently from rocks formed in the same epoch in Europe. Thus, the rocks provided clear evidence that the continents had drifted with respect to each other. True to form, Jeffreys brusquely rejected Runcorn's studies. His casual disdain for such observational data led some field geologists to suggest that his classic should be retitled An Earth. In 1966 compelling proof that the seafloor spreads from the midocean ridges confirmed the hypothesis that molten rock wells up at these ridges from deep within the earth and repaves the seafloor as giant crustal plates move apart. Thus, seafloor spreading not only explained the long-standing puzzle of why the ocean basins are so much younger than the continents, but also provided evidence that the plates, and so the continents on them, move. Overnight, plate tectonic theory, with continental drift, became the consensus view.

199602_2-RC_3_17

Which one of the following phrases, as used in context, most clearly reveals the author's opinion about Jeffreys?

Like Charles Darwin, Alfred Wegener revolutionized an entire science. Unlike Darwin's ideas, which still stir up much controversy, Wegener's theory of drifting continents is accepted almost without question, but it did not succeed without a struggle. In 1912 Wegener suggested that Africa and South America are estranged pieces of a single, ancient supercontinent, Pangaea, that had drifted apart, leaving the Atlantic Ocean between them. However, even Wegener believed that geological wear and tear over the ages would have damaged the fine detail of ancient coastlines, destroying the best evidence for drift. He never tested the fit between the African and South American coastlines with any exactitude, and for a time his ideas were virtually ignored. In 1924 Harold Jeffreys, who would become one of the strongest critics of the theory, dismissed it in his landmark book The Earth. Apparently after casually observing the shorelines on a globe, Jeffreys concluded that the fit between Africa and South America was very poor. Disturbed by Jeffreys' obviously perfunctory observation, S. W. Carey used careful techniques of geometric projection to correct, better than most maps do, for the fact that the continents' margins lie on a sphere rather than on a flat surface. He found a remarkably close fit. At about the same time, Keith Runcorn found other evidence for drift. When volcanic lava cools and hardens into basalt, it is magnetized by the earth's own magnetic field. The rock's poles become aligned with the earth's magnetic poles. Though the planet's poles have wandered over the past few hundred million years, the magnetic field of each basalt fragment is still aimed the way the earth's poles were at the time the rock was formed. Although one would expect that the magnetic fields of rocks of the same age from any continent would all be aligned the way the earth's magnetic field was aligned at that time, the magnetic fields of basalts in North America are now aligned quite differently from rocks formed in the same epoch in Europe. Thus, the rocks provided clear evidence that the continents had drifted with respect to each other. True to form, Jeffreys brusquely rejected Runcorn's studies. His casual disdain for such observational data led some field geologists to suggest that his classic should be retitled An Earth. In 1966 compelling proof that the seafloor spreads from the midocean ridges confirmed the hypothesis that molten rock wells up at these ridges from deep within the earth and repaves the seafloor as giant crustal plates move apart. Thus, seafloor spreading not only explained the long-standing puzzle of why the ocean basins are so much younger than the continents, but also provided evidence that the plates, and so the continents on them, move. Overnight, plate tectonic theory, with continental drift, became the consensus view.

199602_2-RC_3_18

The author's mention of the fact that some field geologists suggested calling Jeffreys' work An Earth (line 45) serves to

Like Charles Darwin, Alfred Wegener revolutionized an entire science. Unlike Darwin's ideas, which still stir up much controversy, Wegener's theory of drifting continents is accepted almost without question, but it did not succeed without a struggle. In 1912 Wegener suggested that Africa and South America are estranged pieces of a single, ancient supercontinent, Pangaea, that had drifted apart, leaving the Atlantic Ocean between them. However, even Wegener believed that geological wear and tear over the ages would have damaged the fine detail of ancient coastlines, destroying the best evidence for drift. He never tested the fit between the African and South American coastlines with any exactitude, and for a time his ideas were virtually ignored. In 1924 Harold Jeffreys, who would become one of the strongest critics of the theory, dismissed it in his landmark book The Earth. Apparently after casually observing the shorelines on a globe, Jeffreys concluded that the fit between Africa and South America was very poor. Disturbed by Jeffreys' obviously perfunctory observation, S. W. Carey used careful techniques of geometric projection to correct, better than most maps do, for the fact that the continents' margins lie on a sphere rather than on a flat surface. He found a remarkably close fit. At about the same time, Keith Runcorn found other evidence for drift. When volcanic lava cools and hardens into basalt, it is magnetized by the earth's own magnetic field. The rock's poles become aligned with the earth's magnetic poles. Though the planet's poles have wandered over the past few hundred million years, the magnetic field of each basalt fragment is still aimed the way the earth's poles were at the time the rock was formed. Although one would expect that the magnetic fields of rocks of the same age from any continent would all be aligned the way the earth's magnetic field was aligned at that time, the magnetic fields of basalts in North America are now aligned quite differently from rocks formed in the same epoch in Europe. Thus, the rocks provided clear evidence that the continents had drifted with respect to each other. True to form, Jeffreys brusquely rejected Runcorn's studies. His casual disdain for such observational data led some field geologists to suggest that his classic should be retitled An Earth. In 1966 compelling proof that the seafloor spreads from the midocean ridges confirmed the hypothesis that molten rock wells up at these ridges from deep within the earth and repaves the seafloor as giant crustal plates move apart. Thus, seafloor spreading not only explained the long-standing puzzle of why the ocean basins are so much younger than the continents, but also provided evidence that the plates, and so the continents on them, move. Overnight, plate tectonic theory, with continental drift, became the consensus view.

199602_2-RC_3_19

It can be inferred that Carey believed Jeffreys' 1924 appraisal to be

Like Charles Darwin, Alfred Wegener revolutionized an entire science. Unlike Darwin's ideas, which still stir up much controversy, Wegener's theory of drifting continents is accepted almost without question, but it did not succeed without a struggle. In 1912 Wegener suggested that Africa and South America are estranged pieces of a single, ancient supercontinent, Pangaea, that had drifted apart, leaving the Atlantic Ocean between them. However, even Wegener believed that geological wear and tear over the ages would have damaged the fine detail of ancient coastlines, destroying the best evidence for drift. He never tested the fit between the African and South American coastlines with any exactitude, and for a time his ideas were virtually ignored. In 1924 Harold Jeffreys, who would become one of the strongest critics of the theory, dismissed it in his landmark book The Earth. Apparently after casually observing the shorelines on a globe, Jeffreys concluded that the fit between Africa and South America was very poor. Disturbed by Jeffreys' obviously perfunctory observation, S. W. Carey used careful techniques of geometric projection to correct, better than most maps do, for the fact that the continents' margins lie on a sphere rather than on a flat surface. He found a remarkably close fit. At about the same time, Keith Runcorn found other evidence for drift. When volcanic lava cools and hardens into basalt, it is magnetized by the earth's own magnetic field. The rock's poles become aligned with the earth's magnetic poles. Though the planet's poles have wandered over the past few hundred million years, the magnetic field of each basalt fragment is still aimed the way the earth's poles were at the time the rock was formed. Although one would expect that the magnetic fields of rocks of the same age from any continent would all be aligned the way the earth's magnetic field was aligned at that time, the magnetic fields of basalts in North America are now aligned quite differently from rocks formed in the same epoch in Europe. Thus, the rocks provided clear evidence that the continents had drifted with respect to each other. True to form, Jeffreys brusquely rejected Runcorn's studies. His casual disdain for such observational data led some field geologists to suggest that his classic should be retitled An Earth. In 1966 compelling proof that the seafloor spreads from the midocean ridges confirmed the hypothesis that molten rock wells up at these ridges from deep within the earth and repaves the seafloor as giant crustal plates move apart. Thus, seafloor spreading not only explained the long-standing puzzle of why the ocean basins are so much younger than the continents, but also provided evidence that the plates, and so the continents on them, move. Overnight, plate tectonic theory, with continental drift, became the consensus view.

199602_2-RC_3_20

The information in the passage suggests that which one of the following findings would most clearly undermine evidence for the theory of continental drift?

To some scholars, the European baroque is not merely an aesthetic style characterized by extravagant forms and elaborate ornamentation, but also a political, social, and cultural mentality prevalent in Europe from approximately 1600 to 1680. This larger view was held by the late Spanish historian José Antonio Maravall, whose writings trace aspects of the modern world— especially the principle of individual liberty in opposition to the state's power—back to the baroque era as it unfolded in Spain. Maravall argues that the baroque period was characterized by "monarchical absolutism" : monarchs, having suppressed the worst excesses of aristocratic disorder, could now ally themselves with their nobilities to defend traditional order and values in societies unsettled by the Renaissance's liberating forces of criticism and opposition. These forces appeared especially threatening because deteriorating economic conditions heightened conflict among different elements of society. For Maravall, baroque culture was the response of the ruling class (including crown, Church, and nobility) to the European social and economic crisis, although that crisis was more acute, and the social structure more frozen, in imperial Spain than elsewhere. Maravall regards the baroque as a culture of control and containment, or, more dynamically, as a directive culture, designed to reintegrate and unite a society living under the shadow of social and intellectual disruption. Maravall suggests that even though all the political controls were centralized in the monarchical system, this system of authority was not simply repressive. It was also enticing, promoting a public delight in grandiose artifice by means of devices that ranged from fireworks displays to theater to religious festivals. Operating upon an urban culture that already possessed characteristics of modern mass culture, these enticements deflected the desire for novelty into areas of life where it represented no challenge to the political order. Maravall concludes that every aspect of the baroque emerged from the necessity, as public opinion grew increasingly important, of manipulating opinions and feelings on a broad public scale. Perhaps, however, Maravall's interpretation is overly influenced by his quest for baroque foreshadowings of "modernity" and by his experience of living under the Spanish dictator Franco. He tends to exaggerate the capacity of those in authority to manipulate a society for their own ideological ends. A look at the seventeenth-century courts of Charles I in England or Philip IV in Spain suggests that efforts at manipulation were at times wholly counterproductive. In England and Spain during the 1630s, the rulers themselves, not the subjects, succumbed to the illusions carefully sustained by ceremony, theater, and symbol. The result was that members of the ruling class became dangerously isolated from the outside world, and as the gulf between illusion and reality widened, the monarchy and aristocracy fell headlong into a credibility gap of their own creation.

199602_2-RC_4_21

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

To some scholars, the European baroque is not merely an aesthetic style characterized by extravagant forms and elaborate ornamentation, but also a political, social, and cultural mentality prevalent in Europe from approximately 1600 to 1680. This larger view was held by the late Spanish historian José Antonio Maravall, whose writings trace aspects of the modern world— especially the principle of individual liberty in opposition to the state's power—back to the baroque era as it unfolded in Spain. Maravall argues that the baroque period was characterized by "monarchical absolutism" : monarchs, having suppressed the worst excesses of aristocratic disorder, could now ally themselves with their nobilities to defend traditional order and values in societies unsettled by the Renaissance's liberating forces of criticism and opposition. These forces appeared especially threatening because deteriorating economic conditions heightened conflict among different elements of society. For Maravall, baroque culture was the response of the ruling class (including crown, Church, and nobility) to the European social and economic crisis, although that crisis was more acute, and the social structure more frozen, in imperial Spain than elsewhere. Maravall regards the baroque as a culture of control and containment, or, more dynamically, as a directive culture, designed to reintegrate and unite a society living under the shadow of social and intellectual disruption. Maravall suggests that even though all the political controls were centralized in the monarchical system, this system of authority was not simply repressive. It was also enticing, promoting a public delight in grandiose artifice by means of devices that ranged from fireworks displays to theater to religious festivals. Operating upon an urban culture that already possessed characteristics of modern mass culture, these enticements deflected the desire for novelty into areas of life where it represented no challenge to the political order. Maravall concludes that every aspect of the baroque emerged from the necessity, as public opinion grew increasingly important, of manipulating opinions and feelings on a broad public scale. Perhaps, however, Maravall's interpretation is overly influenced by his quest for baroque foreshadowings of "modernity" and by his experience of living under the Spanish dictator Franco. He tends to exaggerate the capacity of those in authority to manipulate a society for their own ideological ends. A look at the seventeenth-century courts of Charles I in England or Philip IV in Spain suggests that efforts at manipulation were at times wholly counterproductive. In England and Spain during the 1630s, the rulers themselves, not the subjects, succumbed to the illusions carefully sustained by ceremony, theater, and symbol. The result was that members of the ruling class became dangerously isolated from the outside world, and as the gulf between illusion and reality widened, the monarchy and aristocracy fell headlong into a credibility gap of their own creation.

199602_2-RC_4_22

Which one of the following phrases, in the context in which it occurs, most accurately indicates the author's attitude toward Maravall's concept of baroque culture?

To some scholars, the European baroque is not merely an aesthetic style characterized by extravagant forms and elaborate ornamentation, but also a political, social, and cultural mentality prevalent in Europe from approximately 1600 to 1680. This larger view was held by the late Spanish historian José Antonio Maravall, whose writings trace aspects of the modern world— especially the principle of individual liberty in opposition to the state's power—back to the baroque era as it unfolded in Spain. Maravall argues that the baroque period was characterized by "monarchical absolutism" : monarchs, having suppressed the worst excesses of aristocratic disorder, could now ally themselves with their nobilities to defend traditional order and values in societies unsettled by the Renaissance's liberating forces of criticism and opposition. These forces appeared especially threatening because deteriorating economic conditions heightened conflict among different elements of society. For Maravall, baroque culture was the response of the ruling class (including crown, Church, and nobility) to the European social and economic crisis, although that crisis was more acute, and the social structure more frozen, in imperial Spain than elsewhere. Maravall regards the baroque as a culture of control and containment, or, more dynamically, as a directive culture, designed to reintegrate and unite a society living under the shadow of social and intellectual disruption. Maravall suggests that even though all the political controls were centralized in the monarchical system, this system of authority was not simply repressive. It was also enticing, promoting a public delight in grandiose artifice by means of devices that ranged from fireworks displays to theater to religious festivals. Operating upon an urban culture that already possessed characteristics of modern mass culture, these enticements deflected the desire for novelty into areas of life where it represented no challenge to the political order. Maravall concludes that every aspect of the baroque emerged from the necessity, as public opinion grew increasingly important, of manipulating opinions and feelings on a broad public scale. Perhaps, however, Maravall's interpretation is overly influenced by his quest for baroque foreshadowings of "modernity" and by his experience of living under the Spanish dictator Franco. He tends to exaggerate the capacity of those in authority to manipulate a society for their own ideological ends. A look at the seventeenth-century courts of Charles I in England or Philip IV in Spain suggests that efforts at manipulation were at times wholly counterproductive. In England and Spain during the 1630s, the rulers themselves, not the subjects, succumbed to the illusions carefully sustained by ceremony, theater, and symbol. The result was that members of the ruling class became dangerously isolated from the outside world, and as the gulf between illusion and reality widened, the monarchy and aristocracy fell headlong into a credibility gap of their own creation.

199602_2-RC_4_23

Which one of the following words best expresses the meaning of "directive" as that word is used in line 27 of the passage?

To some scholars, the European baroque is not merely an aesthetic style characterized by extravagant forms and elaborate ornamentation, but also a political, social, and cultural mentality prevalent in Europe from approximately 1600 to 1680. This larger view was held by the late Spanish historian José Antonio Maravall, whose writings trace aspects of the modern world— especially the principle of individual liberty in opposition to the state's power—back to the baroque era as it unfolded in Spain. Maravall argues that the baroque period was characterized by "monarchical absolutism" : monarchs, having suppressed the worst excesses of aristocratic disorder, could now ally themselves with their nobilities to defend traditional order and values in societies unsettled by the Renaissance's liberating forces of criticism and opposition. These forces appeared especially threatening because deteriorating economic conditions heightened conflict among different elements of society. For Maravall, baroque culture was the response of the ruling class (including crown, Church, and nobility) to the European social and economic crisis, although that crisis was more acute, and the social structure more frozen, in imperial Spain than elsewhere. Maravall regards the baroque as a culture of control and containment, or, more dynamically, as a directive culture, designed to reintegrate and unite a society living under the shadow of social and intellectual disruption. Maravall suggests that even though all the political controls were centralized in the monarchical system, this system of authority was not simply repressive. It was also enticing, promoting a public delight in grandiose artifice by means of devices that ranged from fireworks displays to theater to religious festivals. Operating upon an urban culture that already possessed characteristics of modern mass culture, these enticements deflected the desire for novelty into areas of life where it represented no challenge to the political order. Maravall concludes that every aspect of the baroque emerged from the necessity, as public opinion grew increasingly important, of manipulating opinions and feelings on a broad public scale. Perhaps, however, Maravall's interpretation is overly influenced by his quest for baroque foreshadowings of "modernity" and by his experience of living under the Spanish dictator Franco. He tends to exaggerate the capacity of those in authority to manipulate a society for their own ideological ends. A look at the seventeenth-century courts of Charles I in England or Philip IV in Spain suggests that efforts at manipulation were at times wholly counterproductive. In England and Spain during the 1630s, the rulers themselves, not the subjects, succumbed to the illusions carefully sustained by ceremony, theater, and symbol. The result was that members of the ruling class became dangerously isolated from the outside world, and as the gulf between illusion and reality widened, the monarchy and aristocracy fell headlong into a credibility gap of their own creation.

199602_2-RC_4_24

It can be inferred from the passage that Maravall regarded monarchs of the baroque era as

To some scholars, the European baroque is not merely an aesthetic style characterized by extravagant forms and elaborate ornamentation, but also a political, social, and cultural mentality prevalent in Europe from approximately 1600 to 1680. This larger view was held by the late Spanish historian José Antonio Maravall, whose writings trace aspects of the modern world— especially the principle of individual liberty in opposition to the state's power—back to the baroque era as it unfolded in Spain. Maravall argues that the baroque period was characterized by "monarchical absolutism" : monarchs, having suppressed the worst excesses of aristocratic disorder, could now ally themselves with their nobilities to defend traditional order and values in societies unsettled by the Renaissance's liberating forces of criticism and opposition. These forces appeared especially threatening because deteriorating economic conditions heightened conflict among different elements of society. For Maravall, baroque culture was the response of the ruling class (including crown, Church, and nobility) to the European social and economic crisis, although that crisis was more acute, and the social structure more frozen, in imperial Spain than elsewhere. Maravall regards the baroque as a culture of control and containment, or, more dynamically, as a directive culture, designed to reintegrate and unite a society living under the shadow of social and intellectual disruption. Maravall suggests that even though all the political controls were centralized in the monarchical system, this system of authority was not simply repressive. It was also enticing, promoting a public delight in grandiose artifice by means of devices that ranged from fireworks displays to theater to religious festivals. Operating upon an urban culture that already possessed characteristics of modern mass culture, these enticements deflected the desire for novelty into areas of life where it represented no challenge to the political order. Maravall concludes that every aspect of the baroque emerged from the necessity, as public opinion grew increasingly important, of manipulating opinions and feelings on a broad public scale. Perhaps, however, Maravall's interpretation is overly influenced by his quest for baroque foreshadowings of "modernity" and by his experience of living under the Spanish dictator Franco. He tends to exaggerate the capacity of those in authority to manipulate a society for their own ideological ends. A look at the seventeenth-century courts of Charles I in England or Philip IV in Spain suggests that efforts at manipulation were at times wholly counterproductive. In England and Spain during the 1630s, the rulers themselves, not the subjects, succumbed to the illusions carefully sustained by ceremony, theater, and symbol. The result was that members of the ruling class became dangerously isolated from the outside world, and as the gulf between illusion and reality widened, the monarchy and aristocracy fell headlong into a credibility gap of their own creation.

199602_2-RC_4_25

In Maravall's view, baroque theater was intended to

To some scholars, the European baroque is not merely an aesthetic style characterized by extravagant forms and elaborate ornamentation, but also a political, social, and cultural mentality prevalent in Europe from approximately 1600 to 1680. This larger view was held by the late Spanish historian José Antonio Maravall, whose writings trace aspects of the modern world— especially the principle of individual liberty in opposition to the state's power—back to the baroque era as it unfolded in Spain. Maravall argues that the baroque period was characterized by "monarchical absolutism" : monarchs, having suppressed the worst excesses of aristocratic disorder, could now ally themselves with their nobilities to defend traditional order and values in societies unsettled by the Renaissance's liberating forces of criticism and opposition. These forces appeared especially threatening because deteriorating economic conditions heightened conflict among different elements of society. For Maravall, baroque culture was the response of the ruling class (including crown, Church, and nobility) to the European social and economic crisis, although that crisis was more acute, and the social structure more frozen, in imperial Spain than elsewhere. Maravall regards the baroque as a culture of control and containment, or, more dynamically, as a directive culture, designed to reintegrate and unite a society living under the shadow of social and intellectual disruption. Maravall suggests that even though all the political controls were centralized in the monarchical system, this system of authority was not simply repressive. It was also enticing, promoting a public delight in grandiose artifice by means of devices that ranged from fireworks displays to theater to religious festivals. Operating upon an urban culture that already possessed characteristics of modern mass culture, these enticements deflected the desire for novelty into areas of life where it represented no challenge to the political order. Maravall concludes that every aspect of the baroque emerged from the necessity, as public opinion grew increasingly important, of manipulating opinions and feelings on a broad public scale. Perhaps, however, Maravall's interpretation is overly influenced by his quest for baroque foreshadowings of "modernity" and by his experience of living under the Spanish dictator Franco. He tends to exaggerate the capacity of those in authority to manipulate a society for their own ideological ends. A look at the seventeenth-century courts of Charles I in England or Philip IV in Spain suggests that efforts at manipulation were at times wholly counterproductive. In England and Spain during the 1630s, the rulers themselves, not the subjects, succumbed to the illusions carefully sustained by ceremony, theater, and symbol. The result was that members of the ruling class became dangerously isolated from the outside world, and as the gulf between illusion and reality widened, the monarchy and aristocracy fell headlong into a credibility gap of their own creation.

199602_2-RC_4_26

The main purpose of the passage is to

To some scholars, the European baroque is not merely an aesthetic style characterized by extravagant forms and elaborate ornamentation, but also a political, social, and cultural mentality prevalent in Europe from approximately 1600 to 1680. This larger view was held by the late Spanish historian José Antonio Maravall, whose writings trace aspects of the modern world— especially the principle of individual liberty in opposition to the state's power—back to the baroque era as it unfolded in Spain. Maravall argues that the baroque period was characterized by "monarchical absolutism" : monarchs, having suppressed the worst excesses of aristocratic disorder, could now ally themselves with their nobilities to defend traditional order and values in societies unsettled by the Renaissance's liberating forces of criticism and opposition. These forces appeared especially threatening because deteriorating economic conditions heightened conflict among different elements of society. For Maravall, baroque culture was the response of the ruling class (including crown, Church, and nobility) to the European social and economic crisis, although that crisis was more acute, and the social structure more frozen, in imperial Spain than elsewhere. Maravall regards the baroque as a culture of control and containment, or, more dynamically, as a directive culture, designed to reintegrate and unite a society living under the shadow of social and intellectual disruption. Maravall suggests that even though all the political controls were centralized in the monarchical system, this system of authority was not simply repressive. It was also enticing, promoting a public delight in grandiose artifice by means of devices that ranged from fireworks displays to theater to religious festivals. Operating upon an urban culture that already possessed characteristics of modern mass culture, these enticements deflected the desire for novelty into areas of life where it represented no challenge to the political order. Maravall concludes that every aspect of the baroque emerged from the necessity, as public opinion grew increasingly important, of manipulating opinions and feelings on a broad public scale. Perhaps, however, Maravall's interpretation is overly influenced by his quest for baroque foreshadowings of "modernity" and by his experience of living under the Spanish dictator Franco. He tends to exaggerate the capacity of those in authority to manipulate a society for their own ideological ends. A look at the seventeenth-century courts of Charles I in England or Philip IV in Spain suggests that efforts at manipulation were at times wholly counterproductive. In England and Spain during the 1630s, the rulers themselves, not the subjects, succumbed to the illusions carefully sustained by ceremony, theater, and symbol. The result was that members of the ruling class became dangerously isolated from the outside world, and as the gulf between illusion and reality widened, the monarchy and aristocracy fell headlong into a credibility gap of their own creation.

199602_2-RC_4_27

Which one of the following pieces of evidence, if it existed, would most weaken Maravall's interpretation of baroque culture?

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_1

Which one of the following best states the author's main conclusion?

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_2

The author refers to the "patinas and aromas of a country kitchen" (line 32) most probably in order to

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_3

The second paragraph serves primarily to

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_4

The passage supports which one of the following statements about detective fiction?

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_5

The passage suggests that both Waugh and Oakes consider James's novels to have

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_6

It can be inferred from the passage that, in the author' s view, traditional detective fiction is characterized by

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_7

The author characterizes the position of some critics as "inverted snobbery" (line 17) because they hold which one of the following views?

Wherever the crime novels of P.D.James are discussed by critics, there is a tendency on the one hand to exaggerate her merits and on the other to castigate her as a genre writer who is getting above herself. Perhaps underlying the debate is thatfamiliar, false opposition set up between different kinds of fiction, according to which enjoyable novels are held to be somehow slightly lowbrow, and a novel is not considered true literature unless it is a tiny bit dull. Those commentators who would elevate James's books to the status of high literature point to her painstakingly constructed characters, her elaborate settings, her sense of place, and her love of abstractions:notions about morality, duty, pain, and pleasure are never far from the lips of her police officers and murderers. Others find her pretentious and tiresome; an inverted snobbery accuses her of abandoning the time-honored conventions of the detective genre in favor of a highbrow literary style. The critic Harriet Waugh wants P. D. James to get on with "the more taxing business of laying a tricky trail and then fooling the reader" ; Philip Oakes in The Literary Review groans, "Could we please proceed with the business of clapping the handcuffs on the killer?" James is certainly capable of strikingly good writing. She takes immense trouble to provide her characters with convincing histories and passions. Her descriptive digressions are part of the pleasure of her books and give them dignity and weight. But it is equally true that they frequently interfere with the story; the patinas and aromas of a country kitchen receive more loving attention than does the plot itself. Her devices to advance the story can be shameless and thin, and it is often impossible to see how her detective arrives at the truth; one is left to conclude that the detective solves crimes through intuition. At this stage in her career P. D. James seems to be less interested in the specifics of detection than in her characters' vulnerabilities and perplexities. However, once the rules of a chosen genre cramp creative thought, there is no reason why an able and interesting writer should accept them. In her latest book, there are signs that James is beginning to feel constrained by the crime-novel genre. Here her determination to leave areas of ambiguity in the solution of the crime and to distribute guilt among the murderer, victim, and bystanders points to a conscious rebellion against the traditional neatness of detective fiction. It is fashionable, though reprehensible, for one writer to prescribe to another. But perhaps the time has come for P. D. James to slide out of her handcuffs and stride into the territory of the mainstream novel.

199606_3-RC_1_8

Which one of the following quotations about literature best exemplifies the "familiar" attitude mentioned in lines 5-9?

Many Native Americans view the archaeological excavation and museum display of ancestral skeletal remains and items buried with them as a spiritual desecration. A number of legal remedies that either prohibit or regulate such activities may be available to Native American communities, if they can establish standing in such cases. In disinterment cases, courts have traditionally affirmed the standing of three classes of plaintiffs: the deceased's heirs, the owner of the property on which the grave is located, and parties, including organizations or distant relatives of the deceased, that have a clear interest in the preservation of a particular grave. If an archaeologically discovered grave is of recent historical origin and associated with an identifiable Native American community, Native Americans are likely to establish standing in a suit to prevent disinterment of the remains, but in cases where the grave is ancient and located in an area where the community of Native Americans associated with the grave has not recently lived, they are less likely to be successful in this regard. Indeed, in most cases involving ancient graves, to recognize that Native Americans have standing would represent a significant expansion of common law. In cases where standing can be achieved, however, common law may provide a basis for some Native American claims against archaeologists and museums. Property law, for example, can be useful in establishing Native American claims to artifacts that are retrieved in the excavation of ancient graves and can be considered the communal property of Native American tribes or communities. In Charrier v. Bell, a United States appellate court ruled that the common law doctrine of abandonment, which allows the finder of abandoned property to claim ownership, does not apply to objects buried with the deceased. The court ruled that the practice of burying items with the body of the deceased "is not intended as a means of relinquishing ownership to a stranger," and that to interpret it as such "would render a grave subject to despoliation either immediately after interment or … after removal of the descendants of the deceased from the neighborhood of the cemetery." This ruling suggests that artifacts excavated from Native American ancestral graves should be returned to representatives of tribal groups who can establish standing in such cases. More generally, United States courts have upheld the distinction between individual and communal property, holding that an individual Native American does not have title to communal property owned and held for common use by his or her tribe. As a result, museums cannot assume that they have valid title to cultural property merely because they purchased in good faith an item that was originally sold in good faith by an individual member of a Native American community.

199606_3-RC_2_9

The primary purpose of the passage is to provide an answer to which on of the following questions?

Many Native Americans view the archaeological excavation and museum display of ancestral skeletal remains and items buried with them as a spiritual desecration. A number of legal remedies that either prohibit or regulate such activities may be available to Native American communities, if they can establish standing in such cases. In disinterment cases, courts have traditionally affirmed the standing of three classes of plaintiffs: the deceased's heirs, the owner of the property on which the grave is located, and parties, including organizations or distant relatives of the deceased, that have a clear interest in the preservation of a particular grave. If an archaeologically discovered grave is of recent historical origin and associated with an identifiable Native American community, Native Americans are likely to establish standing in a suit to prevent disinterment of the remains, but in cases where the grave is ancient and located in an area where the community of Native Americans associated with the grave has not recently lived, they are less likely to be successful in this regard. Indeed, in most cases involving ancient graves, to recognize that Native Americans have standing would represent a significant expansion of common law. In cases where standing can be achieved, however, common law may provide a basis for some Native American claims against archaeologists and museums. Property law, for example, can be useful in establishing Native American claims to artifacts that are retrieved in the excavation of ancient graves and can be considered the communal property of Native American tribes or communities. In Charrier v. Bell, a United States appellate court ruled that the common law doctrine of abandonment, which allows the finder of abandoned property to claim ownership, does not apply to objects buried with the deceased. The court ruled that the practice of burying items with the body of the deceased "is not intended as a means of relinquishing ownership to a stranger," and that to interpret it as such "would render a grave subject to despoliation either immediately after interment or … after removal of the descendants of the deceased from the neighborhood of the cemetery." This ruling suggests that artifacts excavated from Native American ancestral graves should be returned to representatives of tribal groups who can establish standing in such cases. More generally, United States courts have upheld the distinction between individual and communal property, holding that an individual Native American does not have title to communal property owned and held for common use by his or her tribe. As a result, museums cannot assume that they have valid title to cultural property merely because they purchased in good faith an item that was originally sold in good faith by an individual member of a Native American community.

199606_3-RC_2_10

It can be inferred that a court would be most likely to deny standing in a disinterment case to which one of the following Native American plaintiffs?

Many Native Americans view the archaeological excavation and museum display of ancestral skeletal remains and items buried with them as a spiritual desecration. A number of legal remedies that either prohibit or regulate such activities may be available to Native American communities, if they can establish standing in such cases. In disinterment cases, courts have traditionally affirmed the standing of three classes of plaintiffs: the deceased's heirs, the owner of the property on which the grave is located, and parties, including organizations or distant relatives of the deceased, that have a clear interest in the preservation of a particular grave. If an archaeologically discovered grave is of recent historical origin and associated with an identifiable Native American community, Native Americans are likely to establish standing in a suit to prevent disinterment of the remains, but in cases where the grave is ancient and located in an area where the community of Native Americans associated with the grave has not recently lived, they are less likely to be successful in this regard. Indeed, in most cases involving ancient graves, to recognize that Native Americans have standing would represent a significant expansion of common law. In cases where standing can be achieved, however, common law may provide a basis for some Native American claims against archaeologists and museums. Property law, for example, can be useful in establishing Native American claims to artifacts that are retrieved in the excavation of ancient graves and can be considered the communal property of Native American tribes or communities. In Charrier v. Bell, a United States appellate court ruled that the common law doctrine of abandonment, which allows the finder of abandoned property to claim ownership, does not apply to objects buried with the deceased. The court ruled that the practice of burying items with the body of the deceased "is not intended as a means of relinquishing ownership to a stranger," and that to interpret it as such "would render a grave subject to despoliation either immediately after interment or … after removal of the descendants of the deceased from the neighborhood of the cemetery." This ruling suggests that artifacts excavated from Native American ancestral graves should be returned to representatives of tribal groups who can establish standing in such cases. More generally, United States courts have upheld the distinction between individual and communal property, holding that an individual Native American does not have title to communal property owned and held for common use by his or her tribe. As a result, museums cannot assume that they have valid title to cultural property merely because they purchased in good faith an item that was originally sold in good faith by an individual member of a Native American community.

199606_3-RC_2_11

According to the passage, which one of the following is true of cases involving ancient graves?

Many Native Americans view the archaeological excavation and museum display of ancestral skeletal remains and items buried with them as a spiritual desecration. A number of legal remedies that either prohibit or regulate such activities may be available to Native American communities, if they can establish standing in such cases. In disinterment cases, courts have traditionally affirmed the standing of three classes of plaintiffs: the deceased's heirs, the owner of the property on which the grave is located, and parties, including organizations or distant relatives of the deceased, that have a clear interest in the preservation of a particular grave. If an archaeologically discovered grave is of recent historical origin and associated with an identifiable Native American community, Native Americans are likely to establish standing in a suit to prevent disinterment of the remains, but in cases where the grave is ancient and located in an area where the community of Native Americans associated with the grave has not recently lived, they are less likely to be successful in this regard. Indeed, in most cases involving ancient graves, to recognize that Native Americans have standing would represent a significant expansion of common law. In cases where standing can be achieved, however, common law may provide a basis for some Native American claims against archaeologists and museums. Property law, for example, can be useful in establishing Native American claims to artifacts that are retrieved in the excavation of ancient graves and can be considered the communal property of Native American tribes or communities. In Charrier v. Bell, a United States appellate court ruled that the common law doctrine of abandonment, which allows the finder of abandoned property to claim ownership, does not apply to objects buried with the deceased. The court ruled that the practice of burying items with the body of the deceased "is not intended as a means of relinquishing ownership to a stranger," and that to interpret it as such "would render a grave subject to despoliation either immediately after interment or … after removal of the descendants of the deceased from the neighborhood of the cemetery." This ruling suggests that artifacts excavated from Native American ancestral graves should be returned to representatives of tribal groups who can establish standing in such cases. More generally, United States courts have upheld the distinction between individual and communal property, holding that an individual Native American does not have title to communal property owned and held for common use by his or her tribe. As a result, museums cannot assume that they have valid title to cultural property merely because they purchased in good faith an item that was originally sold in good faith by an individual member of a Native American community.

199606_3-RC_2_12

The passage suggests that in making the ruling in Carrier v. Bell the Court is most likely to have considered the answer to which one of the following questions?

Many Native Americans view the archaeological excavation and museum display of ancestral skeletal remains and items buried with them as a spiritual desecration. A number of legal remedies that either prohibit or regulate such activities may be available to Native American communities, if they can establish standing in such cases. In disinterment cases, courts have traditionally affirmed the standing of three classes of plaintiffs: the deceased's heirs, the owner of the property on which the grave is located, and parties, including organizations or distant relatives of the deceased, that have a clear interest in the preservation of a particular grave. If an archaeologically discovered grave is of recent historical origin and associated with an identifiable Native American community, Native Americans are likely to establish standing in a suit to prevent disinterment of the remains, but in cases where the grave is ancient and located in an area where the community of Native Americans associated with the grave has not recently lived, they are less likely to be successful in this regard. Indeed, in most cases involving ancient graves, to recognize that Native Americans have standing would represent a significant expansion of common law. In cases where standing can be achieved, however, common law may provide a basis for some Native American claims against archaeologists and museums. Property law, for example, can be useful in establishing Native American claims to artifacts that are retrieved in the excavation of ancient graves and can be considered the communal property of Native American tribes or communities. In Charrier v. Bell, a United States appellate court ruled that the common law doctrine of abandonment, which allows the finder of abandoned property to claim ownership, does not apply to objects buried with the deceased. The court ruled that the practice of burying items with the body of the deceased "is not intended as a means of relinquishing ownership to a stranger," and that to interpret it as such "would render a grave subject to despoliation either immediately after interment or … after removal of the descendants of the deceased from the neighborhood of the cemetery." This ruling suggests that artifacts excavated from Native American ancestral graves should be returned to representatives of tribal groups who can establish standing in such cases. More generally, United States courts have upheld the distinction between individual and communal property, holding that an individual Native American does not have title to communal property owned and held for common use by his or her tribe. As a result, museums cannot assume that they have valid title to cultural property merely because they purchased in good faith an item that was originally sold in good faith by an individual member of a Native American community.

199606_3-RC_2_13

The author uses the second paragraph to

Many Native Americans view the archaeological excavation and museum display of ancestral skeletal remains and items buried with them as a spiritual desecration. A number of legal remedies that either prohibit or regulate such activities may be available to Native American communities, if they can establish standing in such cases. In disinterment cases, courts have traditionally affirmed the standing of three classes of plaintiffs: the deceased's heirs, the owner of the property on which the grave is located, and parties, including organizations or distant relatives of the deceased, that have a clear interest in the preservation of a particular grave. If an archaeologically discovered grave is of recent historical origin and associated with an identifiable Native American community, Native Americans are likely to establish standing in a suit to prevent disinterment of the remains, but in cases where the grave is ancient and located in an area where the community of Native Americans associated with the grave has not recently lived, they are less likely to be successful in this regard. Indeed, in most cases involving ancient graves, to recognize that Native Americans have standing would represent a significant expansion of common law. In cases where standing can be achieved, however, common law may provide a basis for some Native American claims against archaeologists and museums. Property law, for example, can be useful in establishing Native American claims to artifacts that are retrieved in the excavation of ancient graves and can be considered the communal property of Native American tribes or communities. In Charrier v. Bell, a United States appellate court ruled that the common law doctrine of abandonment, which allows the finder of abandoned property to claim ownership, does not apply to objects buried with the deceased. The court ruled that the practice of burying items with the body of the deceased "is not intended as a means of relinquishing ownership to a stranger," and that to interpret it as such "would render a grave subject to despoliation either immediately after interment or … after removal of the descendants of the deceased from the neighborhood of the cemetery." This ruling suggests that artifacts excavated from Native American ancestral graves should be returned to representatives of tribal groups who can establish standing in such cases. More generally, United States courts have upheld the distinction between individual and communal property, holding that an individual Native American does not have title to communal property owned and held for common use by his or her tribe. As a result, museums cannot assume that they have valid title to cultural property merely because they purchased in good faith an item that was originally sold in good faith by an individual member of a Native American community.

199606_3-RC_2_14

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

When the same habitat types (forests, oceans, grasslands, etc.) in regions of different latitudes are compared, it becomes apparent that the overall number of species increases from pole to equator. This latitudinal gradient is probably even more pronounced than current records indicate, since researchers believe that most undiscovered species live in the tropics. One hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, the "time theory," holds that diverse species adapted to today's climatic conditions have had more time to emerge in the tropical regions, which, unlike the temperate and arctic zones, have been unaffected by a succession of ice ages. However, ice ages have caused less disruption in some temperate regions than in others and have not interrupted arctic conditions. Alternatively, the species-energy hypothesis proposes the following positive correlations: incoming energy from the Sun correlated with rates of growth and reproduction; rates of growth and reproduction with the amount of living matter (biomass) at a given moment; and the amount of biomass with number of species. However, since organisms may die rapidly, high production rates can exist with low biomass. And high biomass can exist with few species. Moreover, the mechanism proposed—greater energy influx leading to bigger populations, thereby lowering the probability of local extinction—remains untested. A third hypothesis centers on the tropics' climatic stability, which provides a more reliable supply of resources. Species can thus survive even with few types of food, and competing species can tolerate greater overlap between their respective niches. Both capabilities enable more species to exist on the same resources. However, the ecology of local communities cannot account for the origin of the latitudinal gradient. Localized ecological processes such as competition do not generate regional pools of species, and it is the total number of species available regionally for colonizing any particular area that makes the difference between for example, a forest at the equator and one at a higher latitude. A fourth and most plausible hypothesis focuses on regional speciation, and in particular on rates of speciation and extinction. According to this hypothesis, if speciation rates become higher toward the tropics, and are not negated by extinction rates, then the latitudinal gradient would result—and become increasingly steep. The mechanism for this rate-of-speciation hypothesis is that most new animal species, and perhaps plant species, arise because a population subgroup becomes isolated. This subgroup evolves differently and eventually cannot interbreed with members of the original population. The uneven spread of a species over a large geographic area promotes this mechanism: at the edges, small populations spread out and form isolated groups. Since subgroups in an arctic environment are more likely to face extinction than those in the tropics, the latter are more likely to survive long enough to adapt to local conditions and ultimately become new species.

199606_3-RC_3_15

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

When the same habitat types (forests, oceans, grasslands, etc.) in regions of different latitudes are compared, it becomes apparent that the overall number of species increases from pole to equator. This latitudinal gradient is probably even more pronounced than current records indicate, since researchers believe that most undiscovered species live in the tropics. One hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, the "time theory," holds that diverse species adapted to today's climatic conditions have had more time to emerge in the tropical regions, which, unlike the temperate and arctic zones, have been unaffected by a succession of ice ages. However, ice ages have caused less disruption in some temperate regions than in others and have not interrupted arctic conditions. Alternatively, the species-energy hypothesis proposes the following positive correlations: incoming energy from the Sun correlated with rates of growth and reproduction; rates of growth and reproduction with the amount of living matter (biomass) at a given moment; and the amount of biomass with number of species. However, since organisms may die rapidly, high production rates can exist with low biomass. And high biomass can exist with few species. Moreover, the mechanism proposed—greater energy influx leading to bigger populations, thereby lowering the probability of local extinction—remains untested. A third hypothesis centers on the tropics' climatic stability, which provides a more reliable supply of resources. Species can thus survive even with few types of food, and competing species can tolerate greater overlap between their respective niches. Both capabilities enable more species to exist on the same resources. However, the ecology of local communities cannot account for the origin of the latitudinal gradient. Localized ecological processes such as competition do not generate regional pools of species, and it is the total number of species available regionally for colonizing any particular area that makes the difference between for example, a forest at the equator and one at a higher latitude. A fourth and most plausible hypothesis focuses on regional speciation, and in particular on rates of speciation and extinction. According to this hypothesis, if speciation rates become higher toward the tropics, and are not negated by extinction rates, then the latitudinal gradient would result—and become increasingly steep. The mechanism for this rate-of-speciation hypothesis is that most new animal species, and perhaps plant species, arise because a population subgroup becomes isolated. This subgroup evolves differently and eventually cannot interbreed with members of the original population. The uneven spread of a species over a large geographic area promotes this mechanism: at the edges, small populations spread out and form isolated groups. Since subgroups in an arctic environment are more likely to face extinction than those in the tropics, the latter are more likely to survive long enough to adapt to local conditions and ultimately become new species.

199606_3-RC_3_16

Which one of the following situations is most consistent with the species-energy hypothesis as described in the passage?

When the same habitat types (forests, oceans, grasslands, etc.) in regions of different latitudes are compared, it becomes apparent that the overall number of species increases from pole to equator. This latitudinal gradient is probably even more pronounced than current records indicate, since researchers believe that most undiscovered species live in the tropics. One hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, the "time theory," holds that diverse species adapted to today's climatic conditions have had more time to emerge in the tropical regions, which, unlike the temperate and arctic zones, have been unaffected by a succession of ice ages. However, ice ages have caused less disruption in some temperate regions than in others and have not interrupted arctic conditions. Alternatively, the species-energy hypothesis proposes the following positive correlations: incoming energy from the Sun correlated with rates of growth and reproduction; rates of growth and reproduction with the amount of living matter (biomass) at a given moment; and the amount of biomass with number of species. However, since organisms may die rapidly, high production rates can exist with low biomass. And high biomass can exist with few species. Moreover, the mechanism proposed—greater energy influx leading to bigger populations, thereby lowering the probability of local extinction—remains untested. A third hypothesis centers on the tropics' climatic stability, which provides a more reliable supply of resources. Species can thus survive even with few types of food, and competing species can tolerate greater overlap between their respective niches. Both capabilities enable more species to exist on the same resources. However, the ecology of local communities cannot account for the origin of the latitudinal gradient. Localized ecological processes such as competition do not generate regional pools of species, and it is the total number of species available regionally for colonizing any particular area that makes the difference between for example, a forest at the equator and one at a higher latitude. A fourth and most plausible hypothesis focuses on regional speciation, and in particular on rates of speciation and extinction. According to this hypothesis, if speciation rates become higher toward the tropics, and are not negated by extinction rates, then the latitudinal gradient would result—and become increasingly steep. The mechanism for this rate-of-speciation hypothesis is that most new animal species, and perhaps plant species, arise because a population subgroup becomes isolated. This subgroup evolves differently and eventually cannot interbreed with members of the original population. The uneven spread of a species over a large geographic area promotes this mechanism: at the edges, small populations spread out and form isolated groups. Since subgroups in an arctic environment are more likely to face extinction than those in the tropics, the latter are more likely to survive long enough to adapt to local conditions and ultimately become new species.

199606_3-RC_3_17

As presented in the passage, the principles of the time theory most strongly support which one of the following predictions?

When the same habitat types (forests, oceans, grasslands, etc.) in regions of different latitudes are compared, it becomes apparent that the overall number of species increases from pole to equator. This latitudinal gradient is probably even more pronounced than current records indicate, since researchers believe that most undiscovered species live in the tropics. One hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, the "time theory," holds that diverse species adapted to today's climatic conditions have had more time to emerge in the tropical regions, which, unlike the temperate and arctic zones, have been unaffected by a succession of ice ages. However, ice ages have caused less disruption in some temperate regions than in others and have not interrupted arctic conditions. Alternatively, the species-energy hypothesis proposes the following positive correlations: incoming energy from the Sun correlated with rates of growth and reproduction; rates of growth and reproduction with the amount of living matter (biomass) at a given moment; and the amount of biomass with number of species. However, since organisms may die rapidly, high production rates can exist with low biomass. And high biomass can exist with few species. Moreover, the mechanism proposed—greater energy influx leading to bigger populations, thereby lowering the probability of local extinction—remains untested. A third hypothesis centers on the tropics' climatic stability, which provides a more reliable supply of resources. Species can thus survive even with few types of food, and competing species can tolerate greater overlap between their respective niches. Both capabilities enable more species to exist on the same resources. However, the ecology of local communities cannot account for the origin of the latitudinal gradient. Localized ecological processes such as competition do not generate regional pools of species, and it is the total number of species available regionally for colonizing any particular area that makes the difference between for example, a forest at the equator and one at a higher latitude. A fourth and most plausible hypothesis focuses on regional speciation, and in particular on rates of speciation and extinction. According to this hypothesis, if speciation rates become higher toward the tropics, and are not negated by extinction rates, then the latitudinal gradient would result—and become increasingly steep. The mechanism for this rate-of-speciation hypothesis is that most new animal species, and perhaps plant species, arise because a population subgroup becomes isolated. This subgroup evolves differently and eventually cannot interbreed with members of the original population. The uneven spread of a species over a large geographic area promotes this mechanism: at the edges, small populations spread out and form isolated groups. Since subgroups in an arctic environment are more likely to face extinction than those in the tropics, the latter are more likely to survive long enough to adapt to local conditions and ultimately become new species.

199606_3-RC_3_18

Which one of the following, if true, most clearly weakens the rate-of-speciation hypothesis as it is described in the passage?

When the same habitat types (forests, oceans, grasslands, etc.) in regions of different latitudes are compared, it becomes apparent that the overall number of species increases from pole to equator. This latitudinal gradient is probably even more pronounced than current records indicate, since researchers believe that most undiscovered species live in the tropics. One hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, the "time theory," holds that diverse species adapted to today's climatic conditions have had more time to emerge in the tropical regions, which, unlike the temperate and arctic zones, have been unaffected by a succession of ice ages. However, ice ages have caused less disruption in some temperate regions than in others and have not interrupted arctic conditions. Alternatively, the species-energy hypothesis proposes the following positive correlations: incoming energy from the Sun correlated with rates of growth and reproduction; rates of growth and reproduction with the amount of living matter (biomass) at a given moment; and the amount of biomass with number of species. However, since organisms may die rapidly, high production rates can exist with low biomass. And high biomass can exist with few species. Moreover, the mechanism proposed—greater energy influx leading to bigger populations, thereby lowering the probability of local extinction—remains untested. A third hypothesis centers on the tropics' climatic stability, which provides a more reliable supply of resources. Species can thus survive even with few types of food, and competing species can tolerate greater overlap between their respective niches. Both capabilities enable more species to exist on the same resources. However, the ecology of local communities cannot account for the origin of the latitudinal gradient. Localized ecological processes such as competition do not generate regional pools of species, and it is the total number of species available regionally for colonizing any particular area that makes the difference between for example, a forest at the equator and one at a higher latitude. A fourth and most plausible hypothesis focuses on regional speciation, and in particular on rates of speciation and extinction. According to this hypothesis, if speciation rates become higher toward the tropics, and are not negated by extinction rates, then the latitudinal gradient would result—and become increasingly steep. The mechanism for this rate-of-speciation hypothesis is that most new animal species, and perhaps plant species, arise because a population subgroup becomes isolated. This subgroup evolves differently and eventually cannot interbreed with members of the original population. The uneven spread of a species over a large geographic area promotes this mechanism: at the edges, small populations spread out and form isolated groups. Since subgroups in an arctic environment are more likely to face extinction than those in the tropics, the latter are more likely to survive long enough to adapt to local conditions and ultimately become new species.

199606_3-RC_3_19

Which one of the following inferences about the biological characteristics of a temperate-zone grassland is most strongly supported by the passage?

When the same habitat types (forests, oceans, grasslands, etc.) in regions of different latitudes are compared, it becomes apparent that the overall number of species increases from pole to equator. This latitudinal gradient is probably even more pronounced than current records indicate, since researchers believe that most undiscovered species live in the tropics. One hypothesis to explain this phenomenon, the "time theory," holds that diverse species adapted to today's climatic conditions have had more time to emerge in the tropical regions, which, unlike the temperate and arctic zones, have been unaffected by a succession of ice ages. However, ice ages have caused less disruption in some temperate regions than in others and have not interrupted arctic conditions. Alternatively, the species-energy hypothesis proposes the following positive correlations: incoming energy from the Sun correlated with rates of growth and reproduction; rates of growth and reproduction with the amount of living matter (biomass) at a given moment; and the amount of biomass with number of species. However, since organisms may die rapidly, high production rates can exist with low biomass. And high biomass can exist with few species. Moreover, the mechanism proposed—greater energy influx leading to bigger populations, thereby lowering the probability of local extinction—remains untested. A third hypothesis centers on the tropics' climatic stability, which provides a more reliable supply of resources. Species can thus survive even with few types of food, and competing species can tolerate greater overlap between their respective niches. Both capabilities enable more species to exist on the same resources. However, the ecology of local communities cannot account for the origin of the latitudinal gradient. Localized ecological processes such as competition do not generate regional pools of species, and it is the total number of species available regionally for colonizing any particular area that makes the difference between for example, a forest at the equator and one at a higher latitude. A fourth and most plausible hypothesis focuses on regional speciation, and in particular on rates of speciation and extinction. According to this hypothesis, if speciation rates become higher toward the tropics, and are not negated by extinction rates, then the latitudinal gradient would result—and become increasingly steep. The mechanism for this rate-of-speciation hypothesis is that most new animal species, and perhaps plant species, arise because a population subgroup becomes isolated. This subgroup evolves differently and eventually cannot interbreed with members of the original population. The uneven spread of a species over a large geographic area promotes this mechanism: at the edges, small populations spread out and form isolated groups. Since subgroups in an arctic environment are more likely to face extinction than those in the tropics, the latter are more likely to survive long enough to adapt to local conditions and ultimately become new species.

199606_3-RC_3_20

With which one of the following statements concerning possible explanations for the latitudinal gradient in number of species would the author be most likely to agree?

Two impressive studies have reexamined Eric Williams' conclusion that Britain's abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and its emancipation of slaves in its colonies in 1834 were driven primarily by economic rather than humanitarian motives. Blighted by depleted soil, indebtedness, and the inefficiency of coerced labor, these colonies, according to Williams, had by 1807 become an impediment to British economic progress. Seymour Drescher provides a more balanced view. Rejecting interpretations based either on economic interest or the moral vision of abolitionists, Drescher has reconstructed the populist characteristics of British abolitionism, which appears to have cut across lines of class, party, and religion. Noting that between 1780 and 1830 antislavery petitions outnumbered those on any other issue, including parliamentary reform, Drescher concludes that such support cannot be explained by economic interest alone, especially when much of it came from the unenfranchised masses. Yet, aside from demonstrating that such support must have resulted at least in part from widespread literacy and a tradition of political activism, Drescher does not finally explain how England, a nation deeply divided by class struggles, could mobilize popular support for antislavery measures proposed by otherwise conservative politicians in the House of Lords and approved there with little dissent. David Eltis' answer to that question actually supports some of Williams' insights. Eschewing Drescher's idealization of British traditions of liberty, Eltis points to continuing use of low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to ensure the industriousness of British workers. Indeed, certain notables even called for the enslavement of unemployed laborers who roamed the British countryside—an acceptance of coerced labor that Eltis attributes to a preindustrial desire to keep labor costs low and exports competitive. By the late eighteenth century, however, a growing home market began to alert capitalists to the importance of "want creation" and to incentives such as higher wages as a means of increasing both worker productivity and the number of consumers. Significantly, it was products grown by slaves, such as sugar, coffee, and tobacco, that stimulated new wants at all levels of British society and were the forerunners of products intended in modern capitalist societies to satisfy what Eltis describes as "nonsubsistence or psychological needs." Eltis concludes that in an economy that had begun to rely on voluntary labor to satisfy such needs, forced labor necessarily began to appear both inappropriate and counterproductive to employers. Eltis thus concludes that, while Williams may well have underestimated the economic viability of the British colonies employing forced labor in the early 1800s, his insight into the economic motives for abolition was partly accurate. British leaders became committed to colonial labor reform only when they became convinced, for reasons other than those cited by Williams, that free labor was more beneficial to the imperial economy.

199606_3-RC_4_21

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

Two impressive studies have reexamined Eric Williams' conclusion that Britain's abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and its emancipation of slaves in its colonies in 1834 were driven primarily by economic rather than humanitarian motives. Blighted by depleted soil, indebtedness, and the inefficiency of coerced labor, these colonies, according to Williams, had by 1807 become an impediment to British economic progress. Seymour Drescher provides a more balanced view. Rejecting interpretations based either on economic interest or the moral vision of abolitionists, Drescher has reconstructed the populist characteristics of British abolitionism, which appears to have cut across lines of class, party, and religion. Noting that between 1780 and 1830 antislavery petitions outnumbered those on any other issue, including parliamentary reform, Drescher concludes that such support cannot be explained by economic interest alone, especially when much of it came from the unenfranchised masses. Yet, aside from demonstrating that such support must have resulted at least in part from widespread literacy and a tradition of political activism, Drescher does not finally explain how England, a nation deeply divided by class struggles, could mobilize popular support for antislavery measures proposed by otherwise conservative politicians in the House of Lords and approved there with little dissent. David Eltis' answer to that question actually supports some of Williams' insights. Eschewing Drescher's idealization of British traditions of liberty, Eltis points to continuing use of low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to ensure the industriousness of British workers. Indeed, certain notables even called for the enslavement of unemployed laborers who roamed the British countryside—an acceptance of coerced labor that Eltis attributes to a preindustrial desire to keep labor costs low and exports competitive. By the late eighteenth century, however, a growing home market began to alert capitalists to the importance of "want creation" and to incentives such as higher wages as a means of increasing both worker productivity and the number of consumers. Significantly, it was products grown by slaves, such as sugar, coffee, and tobacco, that stimulated new wants at all levels of British society and were the forerunners of products intended in modern capitalist societies to satisfy what Eltis describes as "nonsubsistence or psychological needs." Eltis concludes that in an economy that had begun to rely on voluntary labor to satisfy such needs, forced labor necessarily began to appear both inappropriate and counterproductive to employers. Eltis thus concludes that, while Williams may well have underestimated the economic viability of the British colonies employing forced labor in the early 1800s, his insight into the economic motives for abolition was partly accurate. British leaders became committed to colonial labor reform only when they became convinced, for reasons other than those cited by Williams, that free labor was more beneficial to the imperial economy.

199606_3-RC_4_22

It can be inferred that Eltis cites the views of "certain notables" (line 35) in order to

Two impressive studies have reexamined Eric Williams' conclusion that Britain's abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and its emancipation of slaves in its colonies in 1834 were driven primarily by economic rather than humanitarian motives. Blighted by depleted soil, indebtedness, and the inefficiency of coerced labor, these colonies, according to Williams, had by 1807 become an impediment to British economic progress. Seymour Drescher provides a more balanced view. Rejecting interpretations based either on economic interest or the moral vision of abolitionists, Drescher has reconstructed the populist characteristics of British abolitionism, which appears to have cut across lines of class, party, and religion. Noting that between 1780 and 1830 antislavery petitions outnumbered those on any other issue, including parliamentary reform, Drescher concludes that such support cannot be explained by economic interest alone, especially when much of it came from the unenfranchised masses. Yet, aside from demonstrating that such support must have resulted at least in part from widespread literacy and a tradition of political activism, Drescher does not finally explain how England, a nation deeply divided by class struggles, could mobilize popular support for antislavery measures proposed by otherwise conservative politicians in the House of Lords and approved there with little dissent. David Eltis' answer to that question actually supports some of Williams' insights. Eschewing Drescher's idealization of British traditions of liberty, Eltis points to continuing use of low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to ensure the industriousness of British workers. Indeed, certain notables even called for the enslavement of unemployed laborers who roamed the British countryside—an acceptance of coerced labor that Eltis attributes to a preindustrial desire to keep labor costs low and exports competitive. By the late eighteenth century, however, a growing home market began to alert capitalists to the importance of "want creation" and to incentives such as higher wages as a means of increasing both worker productivity and the number of consumers. Significantly, it was products grown by slaves, such as sugar, coffee, and tobacco, that stimulated new wants at all levels of British society and were the forerunners of products intended in modern capitalist societies to satisfy what Eltis describes as "nonsubsistence or psychological needs." Eltis concludes that in an economy that had begun to rely on voluntary labor to satisfy such needs, forced labor necessarily began to appear both inappropriate and counterproductive to employers. Eltis thus concludes that, while Williams may well have underestimated the economic viability of the British colonies employing forced labor in the early 1800s, his insight into the economic motives for abolition was partly accurate. British leaders became committed to colonial labor reform only when they became convinced, for reasons other than those cited by Williams, that free labor was more beneficial to the imperial economy.

199606_3-RC_4_23

Which one of the following best states Williams' view of the primary reason for Britain's abolition of the slave trade and the emancipation of slaves in its colonies?

Two impressive studies have reexamined Eric Williams' conclusion that Britain's abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and its emancipation of slaves in its colonies in 1834 were driven primarily by economic rather than humanitarian motives. Blighted by depleted soil, indebtedness, and the inefficiency of coerced labor, these colonies, according to Williams, had by 1807 become an impediment to British economic progress. Seymour Drescher provides a more balanced view. Rejecting interpretations based either on economic interest or the moral vision of abolitionists, Drescher has reconstructed the populist characteristics of British abolitionism, which appears to have cut across lines of class, party, and religion. Noting that between 1780 and 1830 antislavery petitions outnumbered those on any other issue, including parliamentary reform, Drescher concludes that such support cannot be explained by economic interest alone, especially when much of it came from the unenfranchised masses. Yet, aside from demonstrating that such support must have resulted at least in part from widespread literacy and a tradition of political activism, Drescher does not finally explain how England, a nation deeply divided by class struggles, could mobilize popular support for antislavery measures proposed by otherwise conservative politicians in the House of Lords and approved there with little dissent. David Eltis' answer to that question actually supports some of Williams' insights. Eschewing Drescher's idealization of British traditions of liberty, Eltis points to continuing use of low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to ensure the industriousness of British workers. Indeed, certain notables even called for the enslavement of unemployed laborers who roamed the British countryside—an acceptance of coerced labor that Eltis attributes to a preindustrial desire to keep labor costs low and exports competitive. By the late eighteenth century, however, a growing home market began to alert capitalists to the importance of "want creation" and to incentives such as higher wages as a means of increasing both worker productivity and the number of consumers. Significantly, it was products grown by slaves, such as sugar, coffee, and tobacco, that stimulated new wants at all levels of British society and were the forerunners of products intended in modern capitalist societies to satisfy what Eltis describes as "nonsubsistence or psychological needs." Eltis concludes that in an economy that had begun to rely on voluntary labor to satisfy such needs, forced labor necessarily began to appear both inappropriate and counterproductive to employers. Eltis thus concludes that, while Williams may well have underestimated the economic viability of the British colonies employing forced labor in the early 1800s, his insight into the economic motives for abolition was partly accurate. British leaders became committed to colonial labor reform only when they became convinced, for reasons other than those cited by Williams, that free labor was more beneficial to the imperial economy.

199606_3-RC_4_24

According to Eltis, low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in Britain in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were intended to

Two impressive studies have reexamined Eric Williams' conclusion that Britain's abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and its emancipation of slaves in its colonies in 1834 were driven primarily by economic rather than humanitarian motives. Blighted by depleted soil, indebtedness, and the inefficiency of coerced labor, these colonies, according to Williams, had by 1807 become an impediment to British economic progress. Seymour Drescher provides a more balanced view. Rejecting interpretations based either on economic interest or the moral vision of abolitionists, Drescher has reconstructed the populist characteristics of British abolitionism, which appears to have cut across lines of class, party, and religion. Noting that between 1780 and 1830 antislavery petitions outnumbered those on any other issue, including parliamentary reform, Drescher concludes that such support cannot be explained by economic interest alone, especially when much of it came from the unenfranchised masses. Yet, aside from demonstrating that such support must have resulted at least in part from widespread literacy and a tradition of political activism, Drescher does not finally explain how England, a nation deeply divided by class struggles, could mobilize popular support for antislavery measures proposed by otherwise conservative politicians in the House of Lords and approved there with little dissent. David Eltis' answer to that question actually supports some of Williams' insights. Eschewing Drescher's idealization of British traditions of liberty, Eltis points to continuing use of low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to ensure the industriousness of British workers. Indeed, certain notables even called for the enslavement of unemployed laborers who roamed the British countryside—an acceptance of coerced labor that Eltis attributes to a preindustrial desire to keep labor costs low and exports competitive. By the late eighteenth century, however, a growing home market began to alert capitalists to the importance of "want creation" and to incentives such as higher wages as a means of increasing both worker productivity and the number of consumers. Significantly, it was products grown by slaves, such as sugar, coffee, and tobacco, that stimulated new wants at all levels of British society and were the forerunners of products intended in modern capitalist societies to satisfy what Eltis describes as "nonsubsistence or psychological needs." Eltis concludes that in an economy that had begun to rely on voluntary labor to satisfy such needs, forced labor necessarily began to appear both inappropriate and counterproductive to employers. Eltis thus concludes that, while Williams may well have underestimated the economic viability of the British colonies employing forced labor in the early 1800s, his insight into the economic motives for abolition was partly accurate. British leaders became committed to colonial labor reform only when they became convinced, for reasons other than those cited by Williams, that free labor was more beneficial to the imperial economy.

199606_3-RC_4_25

It can be inferred that the author of the passage views Drescher's presentation of British traditions concerning liberty as

Two impressive studies have reexamined Eric Williams' conclusion that Britain's abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and its emancipation of slaves in its colonies in 1834 were driven primarily by economic rather than humanitarian motives. Blighted by depleted soil, indebtedness, and the inefficiency of coerced labor, these colonies, according to Williams, had by 1807 become an impediment to British economic progress. Seymour Drescher provides a more balanced view. Rejecting interpretations based either on economic interest or the moral vision of abolitionists, Drescher has reconstructed the populist characteristics of British abolitionism, which appears to have cut across lines of class, party, and religion. Noting that between 1780 and 1830 antislavery petitions outnumbered those on any other issue, including parliamentary reform, Drescher concludes that such support cannot be explained by economic interest alone, especially when much of it came from the unenfranchised masses. Yet, aside from demonstrating that such support must have resulted at least in part from widespread literacy and a tradition of political activism, Drescher does not finally explain how England, a nation deeply divided by class struggles, could mobilize popular support for antislavery measures proposed by otherwise conservative politicians in the House of Lords and approved there with little dissent. David Eltis' answer to that question actually supports some of Williams' insights. Eschewing Drescher's idealization of British traditions of liberty, Eltis points to continuing use of low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to ensure the industriousness of British workers. Indeed, certain notables even called for the enslavement of unemployed laborers who roamed the British countryside—an acceptance of coerced labor that Eltis attributes to a preindustrial desire to keep labor costs low and exports competitive. By the late eighteenth century, however, a growing home market began to alert capitalists to the importance of "want creation" and to incentives such as higher wages as a means of increasing both worker productivity and the number of consumers. Significantly, it was products grown by slaves, such as sugar, coffee, and tobacco, that stimulated new wants at all levels of British society and were the forerunners of products intended in modern capitalist societies to satisfy what Eltis describes as "nonsubsistence or psychological needs." Eltis concludes that in an economy that had begun to rely on voluntary labor to satisfy such needs, forced labor necessarily began to appear both inappropriate and counterproductive to employers. Eltis thus concludes that, while Williams may well have underestimated the economic viability of the British colonies employing forced labor in the early 1800s, his insight into the economic motives for abolition was partly accurate. British leaders became committed to colonial labor reform only when they became convinced, for reasons other than those cited by Williams, that free labor was more beneficial to the imperial economy.

199606_3-RC_4_26

The information in the passage suggests that Eltis and Drescher agree that

Two impressive studies have reexamined Eric Williams' conclusion that Britain's abolition of the slave trade in 1807 and its emancipation of slaves in its colonies in 1834 were driven primarily by economic rather than humanitarian motives. Blighted by depleted soil, indebtedness, and the inefficiency of coerced labor, these colonies, according to Williams, had by 1807 become an impediment to British economic progress. Seymour Drescher provides a more balanced view. Rejecting interpretations based either on economic interest or the moral vision of abolitionists, Drescher has reconstructed the populist characteristics of British abolitionism, which appears to have cut across lines of class, party, and religion. Noting that between 1780 and 1830 antislavery petitions outnumbered those on any other issue, including parliamentary reform, Drescher concludes that such support cannot be explained by economic interest alone, especially when much of it came from the unenfranchised masses. Yet, aside from demonstrating that such support must have resulted at least in part from widespread literacy and a tradition of political activism, Drescher does not finally explain how England, a nation deeply divided by class struggles, could mobilize popular support for antislavery measures proposed by otherwise conservative politicians in the House of Lords and approved there with little dissent. David Eltis' answer to that question actually supports some of Williams' insights. Eschewing Drescher's idealization of British traditions of liberty, Eltis points to continuing use of low wages and Draconian vagrancy laws in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to ensure the industriousness of British workers. Indeed, certain notables even called for the enslavement of unemployed laborers who roamed the British countryside—an acceptance of coerced labor that Eltis attributes to a preindustrial desire to keep labor costs low and exports competitive. By the late eighteenth century, however, a growing home market began to alert capitalists to the importance of "want creation" and to incentives such as higher wages as a means of increasing both worker productivity and the number of consumers. Significantly, it was products grown by slaves, such as sugar, coffee, and tobacco, that stimulated new wants at all levels of British society and were the forerunners of products intended in modern capitalist societies to satisfy what Eltis describes as "nonsubsistence or psychological needs." Eltis concludes that in an economy that had begun to rely on voluntary labor to satisfy such needs, forced labor necessarily began to appear both inappropriate and counterproductive to employers. Eltis thus concludes that, while Williams may well have underestimated the economic viability of the British colonies employing forced labor in the early 1800s, his insight into the economic motives for abolition was partly accurate. British leaders became committed to colonial labor reform only when they became convinced, for reasons other than those cited by Williams, that free labor was more beneficial to the imperial economy.

199606_3-RC_4_27

According to the passage, Eltis argues against which one of the following contentions?

The career of trumpeter Miles Davis was one of the most astonishingly productive that jazz music has ever seen.Yet his genius has never received its due. The impatience and artistic restlessness that characterized his work spawned one stylistic turn after another and made Davis anathema to many critics, who deplored his abandonment first of bebop and then of "cool" acoustic jazz for ever more innovative sounds. Having begun his career studying bebop, Davis pulled the first of many stylistic surprises when, in 1948, he became a member of an impromptu musical think tank that gathered in a New York City apartment. The work of this group not only slowed down tempos and featured ensemble playing as much as or even more than solos—in direct reaction to bebop—it also became the seedbed for the "West Coast cool" jazz style. In what would become a characteristic zigzag, Davis didn't follow up on these innovations himself. Instead, in the late 1950s he formed a new band that broke free from jazz's restrictive pattern of chord changes. Soloists could determine the shapes of their melodies without referring back to the same unvarying repetition of chords. In this period, Davis attempted to join jazz phrasings, harmonies, and tonal qualities with a unified and integrated sound similar to that of a classical orchestral piece: in his recordings the rhythms, no matter how jazz-like, are always understated, and the instrumental voicings seem muted. Davis's recordings from the late 1960s signal that, once again, his direction was changing. On Filles de Kilimanjaro, Davis's request that keyboardist Herbie Hancock play electric rather than acoustic piano caused consternation among jazz purists of the time. Other albums featured rock-style beats, heavily electronic instrumentation, a loose improvisational attack and a growing use of studio editing to create jagged soundscapes. By 1969 Davis's typical studio procedure was to have musicians improvise from a base script of material and then to build finished pieces out of tape, like a movie director. Rock groups had pioneered the process; to jazz lovers, raised on the ideal of live improvisation, that approach was a violation of the premise that recordings should simply document the musicians' thought processes in real time. Davis again became the target of fierce polemics by purist jazz critics, who have continued to belittle his contributions to jazz. What probably underlies the intensity of the reactions against Davis is fear of the broadening of possibilities that he exemplified. Ironically, he was simply doing what jazz explorers have always done: reaching for something new that was his own. But because his career endured, because he didn't die young or record only sporadically, and because he refused to dwell in whatever niche he had previously carved out, critics find it difficult to definitively rank Davis in the aesthetic hierarchy to which they cling.

199610_2-RC_1_1

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

The career of trumpeter Miles Davis was one of the most astonishingly productive that jazz music has ever seen.Yet his genius has never received its due. The impatience and artistic restlessness that characterized his work spawned one stylistic turn after another and made Davis anathema to many critics, who deplored his abandonment first of bebop and then of "cool" acoustic jazz for ever more innovative sounds. Having begun his career studying bebop, Davis pulled the first of many stylistic surprises when, in 1948, he became a member of an impromptu musical think tank that gathered in a New York City apartment. The work of this group not only slowed down tempos and featured ensemble playing as much as or even more than solos—in direct reaction to bebop—it also became the seedbed for the "West Coast cool" jazz style. In what would become a characteristic zigzag, Davis didn't follow up on these innovations himself. Instead, in the late 1950s he formed a new band that broke free from jazz's restrictive pattern of chord changes. Soloists could determine the shapes of their melodies without referring back to the same unvarying repetition of chords. In this period, Davis attempted to join jazz phrasings, harmonies, and tonal qualities with a unified and integrated sound similar to that of a classical orchestral piece: in his recordings the rhythms, no matter how jazz-like, are always understated, and the instrumental voicings seem muted. Davis's recordings from the late 1960s signal that, once again, his direction was changing. On Filles de Kilimanjaro, Davis's request that keyboardist Herbie Hancock play electric rather than acoustic piano caused consternation among jazz purists of the time. Other albums featured rock-style beats, heavily electronic instrumentation, a loose improvisational attack and a growing use of studio editing to create jagged soundscapes. By 1969 Davis's typical studio procedure was to have musicians improvise from a base script of material and then to build finished pieces out of tape, like a movie director. Rock groups had pioneered the process; to jazz lovers, raised on the ideal of live improvisation, that approach was a violation of the premise that recordings should simply document the musicians' thought processes in real time. Davis again became the target of fierce polemics by purist jazz critics, who have continued to belittle his contributions to jazz. What probably underlies the intensity of the reactions against Davis is fear of the broadening of possibilities that he exemplified. Ironically, he was simply doing what jazz explorers have always done: reaching for something new that was his own. But because his career endured, because he didn't die young or record only sporadically, and because he refused to dwell in whatever niche he had previously carved out, critics find it difficult to definitively rank Davis in the aesthetic hierarchy to which they cling.

199610_2-RC_1_2

According to the passage, which one of the following is true of the "West Coast cool" jazz style?

The career of trumpeter Miles Davis was one of the most astonishingly productive that jazz music has ever seen.Yet his genius has never received its due. The impatience and artistic restlessness that characterized his work spawned one stylistic turn after another and made Davis anathema to many critics, who deplored his abandonment first of bebop and then of "cool" acoustic jazz for ever more innovative sounds. Having begun his career studying bebop, Davis pulled the first of many stylistic surprises when, in 1948, he became a member of an impromptu musical think tank that gathered in a New York City apartment. The work of this group not only slowed down tempos and featured ensemble playing as much as or even more than solos—in direct reaction to bebop—it also became the seedbed for the "West Coast cool" jazz style. In what would become a characteristic zigzag, Davis didn't follow up on these innovations himself. Instead, in the late 1950s he formed a new band that broke free from jazz's restrictive pattern of chord changes. Soloists could determine the shapes of their melodies without referring back to the same unvarying repetition of chords. In this period, Davis attempted to join jazz phrasings, harmonies, and tonal qualities with a unified and integrated sound similar to that of a classical orchestral piece: in his recordings the rhythms, no matter how jazz-like, are always understated, and the instrumental voicings seem muted. Davis's recordings from the late 1960s signal that, once again, his direction was changing. On Filles de Kilimanjaro, Davis's request that keyboardist Herbie Hancock play electric rather than acoustic piano caused consternation among jazz purists of the time. Other albums featured rock-style beats, heavily electronic instrumentation, a loose improvisational attack and a growing use of studio editing to create jagged soundscapes. By 1969 Davis's typical studio procedure was to have musicians improvise from a base script of material and then to build finished pieces out of tape, like a movie director. Rock groups had pioneered the process; to jazz lovers, raised on the ideal of live improvisation, that approach was a violation of the premise that recordings should simply document the musicians' thought processes in real time. Davis again became the target of fierce polemics by purist jazz critics, who have continued to belittle his contributions to jazz. What probably underlies the intensity of the reactions against Davis is fear of the broadening of possibilities that he exemplified. Ironically, he was simply doing what jazz explorers have always done: reaching for something new that was his own. But because his career endured, because he didn't die young or record only sporadically, and because he refused to dwell in whatever niche he had previously carved out, critics find it difficult to definitively rank Davis in the aesthetic hierarchy to which they cling.

199610_2-RC_1_3

The passage suggests which one of the following about the kind of jazz played by Miles Davis prior to l948?

The career of trumpeter Miles Davis was one of the most astonishingly productive that jazz music has ever seen.Yet his genius has never received its due. The impatience and artistic restlessness that characterized his work spawned one stylistic turn after another and made Davis anathema to many critics, who deplored his abandonment first of bebop and then of "cool" acoustic jazz for ever more innovative sounds. Having begun his career studying bebop, Davis pulled the first of many stylistic surprises when, in 1948, he became a member of an impromptu musical think tank that gathered in a New York City apartment. The work of this group not only slowed down tempos and featured ensemble playing as much as or even more than solos—in direct reaction to bebop—it also became the seedbed for the "West Coast cool" jazz style. In what would become a characteristic zigzag, Davis didn't follow up on these innovations himself. Instead, in the late 1950s he formed a new band that broke free from jazz's restrictive pattern of chord changes. Soloists could determine the shapes of their melodies without referring back to the same unvarying repetition of chords. In this period, Davis attempted to join jazz phrasings, harmonies, and tonal qualities with a unified and integrated sound similar to that of a classical orchestral piece: in his recordings the rhythms, no matter how jazz-like, are always understated, and the instrumental voicings seem muted. Davis's recordings from the late 1960s signal that, once again, his direction was changing. On Filles de Kilimanjaro, Davis's request that keyboardist Herbie Hancock play electric rather than acoustic piano caused consternation among jazz purists of the time. Other albums featured rock-style beats, heavily electronic instrumentation, a loose improvisational attack and a growing use of studio editing to create jagged soundscapes. By 1969 Davis's typical studio procedure was to have musicians improvise from a base script of material and then to build finished pieces out of tape, like a movie director. Rock groups had pioneered the process; to jazz lovers, raised on the ideal of live improvisation, that approach was a violation of the premise that recordings should simply document the musicians' thought processes in real time. Davis again became the target of fierce polemics by purist jazz critics, who have continued to belittle his contributions to jazz. What probably underlies the intensity of the reactions against Davis is fear of the broadening of possibilities that he exemplified. Ironically, he was simply doing what jazz explorers have always done: reaching for something new that was his own. But because his career endured, because he didn't die young or record only sporadically, and because he refused to dwell in whatever niche he had previously carved out, critics find it difficult to definitively rank Davis in the aesthetic hierarchy to which they cling.

199610_2-RC_1_4

Which one of the following best describes the author's attitude toward Miles Davis's music?

The career of trumpeter Miles Davis was one of the most astonishingly productive that jazz music has ever seen.Yet his genius has never received its due. The impatience and artistic restlessness that characterized his work spawned one stylistic turn after another and made Davis anathema to many critics, who deplored his abandonment first of bebop and then of "cool" acoustic jazz for ever more innovative sounds. Having begun his career studying bebop, Davis pulled the first of many stylistic surprises when, in 1948, he became a member of an impromptu musical think tank that gathered in a New York City apartment. The work of this group not only slowed down tempos and featured ensemble playing as much as or even more than solos—in direct reaction to bebop—it also became the seedbed for the "West Coast cool" jazz style. In what would become a characteristic zigzag, Davis didn't follow up on these innovations himself. Instead, in the late 1950s he formed a new band that broke free from jazz's restrictive pattern of chord changes. Soloists could determine the shapes of their melodies without referring back to the same unvarying repetition of chords. In this period, Davis attempted to join jazz phrasings, harmonies, and tonal qualities with a unified and integrated sound similar to that of a classical orchestral piece: in his recordings the rhythms, no matter how jazz-like, are always understated, and the instrumental voicings seem muted. Davis's recordings from the late 1960s signal that, once again, his direction was changing. On Filles de Kilimanjaro, Davis's request that keyboardist Herbie Hancock play electric rather than acoustic piano caused consternation among jazz purists of the time. Other albums featured rock-style beats, heavily electronic instrumentation, a loose improvisational attack and a growing use of studio editing to create jagged soundscapes. By 1969 Davis's typical studio procedure was to have musicians improvise from a base script of material and then to build finished pieces out of tape, like a movie director. Rock groups had pioneered the process; to jazz lovers, raised on the ideal of live improvisation, that approach was a violation of the premise that recordings should simply document the musicians' thought processes in real time. Davis again became the target of fierce polemics by purist jazz critics, who have continued to belittle his contributions to jazz. What probably underlies the intensity of the reactions against Davis is fear of the broadening of possibilities that he exemplified. Ironically, he was simply doing what jazz explorers have always done: reaching for something new that was his own. But because his career endured, because he didn't die young or record only sporadically, and because he refused to dwell in whatever niche he had previously carved out, critics find it difficult to definitively rank Davis in the aesthetic hierarchy to which they cling.

199610_2-RC_1_5

Which one of the following creative processes is most similar to Miles Davis's typical studio procedure of the late 1960s, as described in the fourth paragraph of the passage?

The career of trumpeter Miles Davis was one of the most astonishingly productive that jazz music has ever seen.Yet his genius has never received its due. The impatience and artistic restlessness that characterized his work spawned one stylistic turn after another and made Davis anathema to many critics, who deplored his abandonment first of bebop and then of "cool" acoustic jazz for ever more innovative sounds. Having begun his career studying bebop, Davis pulled the first of many stylistic surprises when, in 1948, he became a member of an impromptu musical think tank that gathered in a New York City apartment. The work of this group not only slowed down tempos and featured ensemble playing as much as or even more than solos—in direct reaction to bebop—it also became the seedbed for the "West Coast cool" jazz style. In what would become a characteristic zigzag, Davis didn't follow up on these innovations himself. Instead, in the late 1950s he formed a new band that broke free from jazz's restrictive pattern of chord changes. Soloists could determine the shapes of their melodies without referring back to the same unvarying repetition of chords. In this period, Davis attempted to join jazz phrasings, harmonies, and tonal qualities with a unified and integrated sound similar to that of a classical orchestral piece: in his recordings the rhythms, no matter how jazz-like, are always understated, and the instrumental voicings seem muted. Davis's recordings from the late 1960s signal that, once again, his direction was changing. On Filles de Kilimanjaro, Davis's request that keyboardist Herbie Hancock play electric rather than acoustic piano caused consternation among jazz purists of the time. Other albums featured rock-style beats, heavily electronic instrumentation, a loose improvisational attack and a growing use of studio editing to create jagged soundscapes. By 1969 Davis's typical studio procedure was to have musicians improvise from a base script of material and then to build finished pieces out of tape, like a movie director. Rock groups had pioneered the process; to jazz lovers, raised on the ideal of live improvisation, that approach was a violation of the premise that recordings should simply document the musicians' thought processes in real time. Davis again became the target of fierce polemics by purist jazz critics, who have continued to belittle his contributions to jazz. What probably underlies the intensity of the reactions against Davis is fear of the broadening of possibilities that he exemplified. Ironically, he was simply doing what jazz explorers have always done: reaching for something new that was his own. But because his career endured, because he didn't die young or record only sporadically, and because he refused to dwell in whatever niche he had previously carved out, critics find it difficult to definitively rank Davis in the aesthetic hierarchy to which they cling.

199610_2-RC_1_6

Which one of the following, if true, would most undermine the author's explanation for the way Miles Davis is regarded by jazz critics?

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_7

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

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_8

According to the passage, which one of the following statements about law courts in medieval England is true?

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_9

The author refers to the Florentine guild of lawyers in the first paragraph most probably in order to

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_10

The author refers to the Council of Basel (line 47) primarily in order to

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_11

According to the information in the passage, for which one of the following ethical violations would documentation of disciplinary action against a canon lawyer be most likely to exist?

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_12

Which one of the following is most analogous to the "professional solidarity" referred to in lines 56–57?

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_13

The passage suggests that which one of the following is most likely to have been true of medieval guilds?

By the mid-fourteenth century, professional associations of canon lawyers (legal advocates in Christian ecclesiastical courts, which dealt with cases involving marriage, inheritance, and other issues) had appeared in most of Western Europe, and a body of professional standards had been defined for them. One might expect that the professional associations would play a prominent role in enforcing these standards of conduct, as other guilds often did, and as modern professional associations do, but that seems not to have happened. Advocates' professional organizations showed little fervor for disciplining their erring members. Some even attempted to hobble efforts at enforcement. The Florentine guild of lawyers, for example, forbade its members to play any role in disciplinary proceedings against other guild members. In the few recorded episodes of disciplinary enforcement, the initiative for disciplinary action apparently came from a dissatisfied client, not from fellow lawyers. At first glance, there seem to be two possible explanations for the rarity of disciplinary proceedings. Medieval canon lawyers may have generally observed the standards of professional conduct scrupulously. Alternatively, it is possible that deviations from the established standards of behavior were not uncommon, but that canonical disciplinary mechanisms were so inefficient that most delinquents escaped detection and punishment. Two considerations make it clear that the second of these explanations is more plausible. First, the English civil law courts, whose ethical standards were similar to those of ecclesiastical courts, show many more examples of disciplinary actions against legal practitioners than do the records of church courts. This discrepancy could well indicate that the disciplinary mechanisms of the civil courts functioned more efficiently than those of the church courts. The alternative inference, namely, that ecclesiastical advocates were less prone to ethical lapses than their counterparts in the civil courts, seems inherently weak, especially since there was some overlap of personnel between the civil bar and the ecclesiastical bar. Second, church authorities themselves complained about the failure of advocates to measure up to ethical standards and deplored the shortcomings of the disciplinary system. Thus the Council of Basel declared that canon lawyers failed to adhere to the ethical prescriptions laid down in numerous papal constitutions and directed Cardinal Cesarin to address the problem. In England, where medieval church records are extraordinarily rich, similar complaints about the failure of the disciplinary system to reform unethical practices were very common. Such criticisms seem to have had a paradoxical result, for they apparently reinforced the professional solidarity of lawyers at the expense of the enforcement of ethical standards. Thus the profession's critics may actually have induced advocates to organize professional associations for self-defense. The critics' attacks may also have persuaded lawyers to assign a higher priority to defending themselves against attacks by nonprofessionals than to disciplining wayward members within their own ranks.

199610_2-RC_2_14

The author would be most likely to agree with which one of the following regarding the hypothesis that medieval canon lawyers observed standards of professional conduct scrupulously?

Many birds that form flocks compete through aggressive interaction for priority of access to resources such as food and shelter. The result of repeated interactions between flock members is that each bird gains a particular social status related to its fighting ability, with priority of access to resources increasing with higher status. As the number and intensity of interactions between birds increase, however, so increase the costs to each birds in terms of energy expenditure, time, and risk of injury. Thus, birds possessing attributes that reduce the number of costly interactions in which they must be involved, without leading to a reduction in status, are at an advantage. An external signal, such as a plumage type, announcing fighting ability and thereby obviating the actual need to fight, could be one such attribute. The zoologist Rohwer assented that plumage variations in "Harris sparrows" support the status signaling hypothesis (SSH). He reported that almost without exception birds with darker throats win conflicts with individuals having lighter plumage. He claimed that even among birds of the same age and sex the amount of dark plumage predicts relative dominance status. However, Rohwer's data do not support his assertions: in one of his studies darker birds won only 57 out of 75 conflicts; within another, focusing on conflicts between birds of the same age group or sex, darker birds won 63 and lost 62. There are indications that plumage probably does signal broad age-related differences in status among Harris sparrows: adults, usually dark throated, have higher status than juveniles, who are usually light throated; moreover, juveniles dyed to resemble adults are dominant over undyed juveniles. However, the Harris sparrows' age-related plumage differences do not signal the status of individual birds within an age class, and thus cannot properly be included under the term "status signaling." The best evidence for status signaling is from the greater titmouse. Experiments show a strong correlation between the width of the black breast-plumage stripe and status as measured by success in aggressive interactions. An analysis of factors likely to be associated with breast-stripe width (sex, age, wing length, body weight) has demonstrated social status to be the only variable that correlates with stripe width when the other variables are held constant. An ingenious experiment provided further evidence for status signaling in the greater titmouse. One of three stuffed titmouse dummies was mounted on a feeding tray. When a live bird approached, the dummy was turned by radio control to face the bird and present its breast stripe in "display." When presented with a dummy having a narrower breast stripe than their own, birds approached closely and behaved aggressively. However, when presented with a dummy having a broader breast stripe than their own, live birds acted submissive and did not approach.

199610_2-RC_3_15

According to the passage, the status signaling hypothesis holds that the ability to display a recognizable external signal would have the effect on an individual bird of

Many birds that form flocks compete through aggressive interaction for priority of access to resources such as food and shelter. The result of repeated interactions between flock members is that each bird gains a particular social status related to its fighting ability, with priority of access to resources increasing with higher status. As the number and intensity of interactions between birds increase, however, so increase the costs to each birds in terms of energy expenditure, time, and risk of injury. Thus, birds possessing attributes that reduce the number of costly interactions in which they must be involved, without leading to a reduction in status, are at an advantage. An external signal, such as a plumage type, announcing fighting ability and thereby obviating the actual need to fight, could be one such attribute. The zoologist Rohwer assented that plumage variations in "Harris sparrows" support the status signaling hypothesis (SSH). He reported that almost without exception birds with darker throats win conflicts with individuals having lighter plumage. He claimed that even among birds of the same age and sex the amount of dark plumage predicts relative dominance status. However, Rohwer's data do not support his assertions: in one of his studies darker birds won only 57 out of 75 conflicts; within another, focusing on conflicts between birds of the same age group or sex, darker birds won 63 and lost 62. There are indications that plumage probably does signal broad age-related differences in status among Harris sparrows: adults, usually dark throated, have higher status than juveniles, who are usually light throated; moreover, juveniles dyed to resemble adults are dominant over undyed juveniles. However, the Harris sparrows' age-related plumage differences do not signal the status of individual birds within an age class, and thus cannot properly be included under the term "status signaling." The best evidence for status signaling is from the greater titmouse. Experiments show a strong correlation between the width of the black breast-plumage stripe and status as measured by success in aggressive interactions. An analysis of factors likely to be associated with breast-stripe width (sex, age, wing length, body weight) has demonstrated social status to be the only variable that correlates with stripe width when the other variables are held constant. An ingenious experiment provided further evidence for status signaling in the greater titmouse. One of three stuffed titmouse dummies was mounted on a feeding tray. When a live bird approached, the dummy was turned by radio control to face the bird and present its breast stripe in "display." When presented with a dummy having a narrower breast stripe than their own, birds approached closely and behaved aggressively. However, when presented with a dummy having a broader breast stripe than their own, live birds acted submissive and did not approach.

199610_2-RC_3_16

The author refers to the fact that adult Harris sparrows are usually dark throated (lines 31-32), in order to do which one of the following?

Many birds that form flocks compete through aggressive interaction for priority of access to resources such as food and shelter. The result of repeated interactions between flock members is that each bird gains a particular social status related to its fighting ability, with priority of access to resources increasing with higher status. As the number and intensity of interactions between birds increase, however, so increase the costs to each birds in terms of energy expenditure, time, and risk of injury. Thus, birds possessing attributes that reduce the number of costly interactions in which they must be involved, without leading to a reduction in status, are at an advantage. An external signal, such as a plumage type, announcing fighting ability and thereby obviating the actual need to fight, could be one such attribute. The zoologist Rohwer assented that plumage variations in "Harris sparrows" support the status signaling hypothesis (SSH). He reported that almost without exception birds with darker throats win conflicts with individuals having lighter plumage. He claimed that even among birds of the same age and sex the amount of dark plumage predicts relative dominance status. However, Rohwer's data do not support his assertions: in one of his studies darker birds won only 57 out of 75 conflicts; within another, focusing on conflicts between birds of the same age group or sex, darker birds won 63 and lost 62. There are indications that plumage probably does signal broad age-related differences in status among Harris sparrows: adults, usually dark throated, have higher status than juveniles, who are usually light throated; moreover, juveniles dyed to resemble adults are dominant over undyed juveniles. However, the Harris sparrows' age-related plumage differences do not signal the status of individual birds within an age class, and thus cannot properly be included under the term "status signaling." The best evidence for status signaling is from the greater titmouse. Experiments show a strong correlation between the width of the black breast-plumage stripe and status as measured by success in aggressive interactions. An analysis of factors likely to be associated with breast-stripe width (sex, age, wing length, body weight) has demonstrated social status to be the only variable that correlates with stripe width when the other variables are held constant. An ingenious experiment provided further evidence for status signaling in the greater titmouse. One of three stuffed titmouse dummies was mounted on a feeding tray. When a live bird approached, the dummy was turned by radio control to face the bird and present its breast stripe in "display." When presented with a dummy having a narrower breast stripe than their own, birds approached closely and behaved aggressively. However, when presented with a dummy having a broader breast stripe than their own, live birds acted submissive and did not approach.

199610_2-RC_3_17

Which one of the following, if true, would most seriously undermine the validity of the results of the experiment discussed in the last paragraph?

Many birds that form flocks compete through aggressive interaction for priority of access to resources such as food and shelter. The result of repeated interactions between flock members is that each bird gains a particular social status related to its fighting ability, with priority of access to resources increasing with higher status. As the number and intensity of interactions between birds increase, however, so increase the costs to each birds in terms of energy expenditure, time, and risk of injury. Thus, birds possessing attributes that reduce the number of costly interactions in which they must be involved, without leading to a reduction in status, are at an advantage. An external signal, such as a plumage type, announcing fighting ability and thereby obviating the actual need to fight, could be one such attribute. The zoologist Rohwer assented that plumage variations in "Harris sparrows" support the status signaling hypothesis (SSH). He reported that almost without exception birds with darker throats win conflicts with individuals having lighter plumage. He claimed that even among birds of the same age and sex the amount of dark plumage predicts relative dominance status. However, Rohwer's data do not support his assertions: in one of his studies darker birds won only 57 out of 75 conflicts; within another, focusing on conflicts between birds of the same age group or sex, darker birds won 63 and lost 62. There are indications that plumage probably does signal broad age-related differences in status among Harris sparrows: adults, usually dark throated, have higher status than juveniles, who are usually light throated; moreover, juveniles dyed to resemble adults are dominant over undyed juveniles. However, the Harris sparrows' age-related plumage differences do not signal the status of individual birds within an age class, and thus cannot properly be included under the term "status signaling." The best evidence for status signaling is from the greater titmouse. Experiments show a strong correlation between the width of the black breast-plumage stripe and status as measured by success in aggressive interactions. An analysis of factors likely to be associated with breast-stripe width (sex, age, wing length, body weight) has demonstrated social status to be the only variable that correlates with stripe width when the other variables are held constant. An ingenious experiment provided further evidence for status signaling in the greater titmouse. One of three stuffed titmouse dummies was mounted on a feeding tray. When a live bird approached, the dummy was turned by radio control to face the bird and present its breast stripe in "display." When presented with a dummy having a narrower breast stripe than their own, birds approached closely and behaved aggressively. However, when presented with a dummy having a broader breast stripe than their own, live birds acted submissive and did not approach.

199610_2-RC_3_18

Which one of the following best describes the organization of the passage?

Many birds that form flocks compete through aggressive interaction for priority of access to resources such as food and shelter. The result of repeated interactions between flock members is that each bird gains a particular social status related to its fighting ability, with priority of access to resources increasing with higher status. As the number and intensity of interactions between birds increase, however, so increase the costs to each birds in terms of energy expenditure, time, and risk of injury. Thus, birds possessing attributes that reduce the number of costly interactions in which they must be involved, without leading to a reduction in status, are at an advantage. An external signal, such as a plumage type, announcing fighting ability and thereby obviating the actual need to fight, could be one such attribute. The zoologist Rohwer assented that plumage variations in "Harris sparrows" support the status signaling hypothesis (SSH). He reported that almost without exception birds with darker throats win conflicts with individuals having lighter plumage. He claimed that even among birds of the same age and sex the amount of dark plumage predicts relative dominance status. However, Rohwer's data do not support his assertions: in one of his studies darker birds won only 57 out of 75 conflicts; within another, focusing on conflicts between birds of the same age group or sex, darker birds won 63 and lost 62. There are indications that plumage probably does signal broad age-related differences in status among Harris sparrows: adults, usually dark throated, have higher status than juveniles, who are usually light throated; moreover, juveniles dyed to resemble adults are dominant over undyed juveniles. However, the Harris sparrows' age-related plumage differences do not signal the status of individual birds within an age class, and thus cannot properly be included under the term "status signaling." The best evidence for status signaling is from the greater titmouse. Experiments show a strong correlation between the width of the black breast-plumage stripe and status as measured by success in aggressive interactions. An analysis of factors likely to be associated with breast-stripe width (sex, age, wing length, body weight) has demonstrated social status to be the only variable that correlates with stripe width when the other variables are held constant. An ingenious experiment provided further evidence for status signaling in the greater titmouse. One of three stuffed titmouse dummies was mounted on a feeding tray. When a live bird approached, the dummy was turned by radio control to face the bird and present its breast stripe in "display." When presented with a dummy having a narrower breast stripe than their own, birds approached closely and behaved aggressively. However, when presented with a dummy having a broader breast stripe than their own, live birds acted submissive and did not approach.

199610_2-RC_3_19

According to the passage, which one of the following is true of Rohwer's relationship to the status signaling hypothesis (SSH)?

Many birds that form flocks compete through aggressive interaction for priority of access to resources such as food and shelter. The result of repeated interactions between flock members is that each bird gains a particular social status related to its fighting ability, with priority of access to resources increasing with higher status. As the number and intensity of interactions between birds increase, however, so increase the costs to each birds in terms of energy expenditure, time, and risk of injury. Thus, birds possessing attributes that reduce the number of costly interactions in which they must be involved, without leading to a reduction in status, are at an advantage. An external signal, such as a plumage type, announcing fighting ability and thereby obviating the actual need to fight, could be one such attribute. The zoologist Rohwer assented that plumage variations in "Harris sparrows" support the status signaling hypothesis (SSH). He reported that almost without exception birds with darker throats win conflicts with individuals having lighter plumage. He claimed that even among birds of the same age and sex the amount of dark plumage predicts relative dominance status. However, Rohwer's data do not support his assertions: in one of his studies darker birds won only 57 out of 75 conflicts; within another, focusing on conflicts between birds of the same age group or sex, darker birds won 63 and lost 62. There are indications that plumage probably does signal broad age-related differences in status among Harris sparrows: adults, usually dark throated, have higher status than juveniles, who are usually light throated; moreover, juveniles dyed to resemble adults are dominant over undyed juveniles. However, the Harris sparrows' age-related plumage differences do not signal the status of individual birds within an age class, and thus cannot properly be included under the term "status signaling." The best evidence for status signaling is from the greater titmouse. Experiments show a strong correlation between the width of the black breast-plumage stripe and status as measured by success in aggressive interactions. An analysis of factors likely to be associated with breast-stripe width (sex, age, wing length, body weight) has demonstrated social status to be the only variable that correlates with stripe width when the other variables are held constant. An ingenious experiment provided further evidence for status signaling in the greater titmouse. One of three stuffed titmouse dummies was mounted on a feeding tray. When a live bird approached, the dummy was turned by radio control to face the bird and present its breast stripe in "display." When presented with a dummy having a narrower breast stripe than their own, birds approached closely and behaved aggressively. However, when presented with a dummy having a broader breast stripe than their own, live birds acted submissive and did not approach.

199610_2-RC_3_20

The passage suggests that among birds that form flocks, a bird of high status is most likely to have which one of the following?

Many birds that form flocks compete through aggressive interaction for priority of access to resources such as food and shelter. The result of repeated interactions between flock members is that each bird gains a particular social status related to its fighting ability, with priority of access to resources increasing with higher status. As the number and intensity of interactions between birds increase, however, so increase the costs to each birds in terms of energy expenditure, time, and risk of injury. Thus, birds possessing attributes that reduce the number of costly interactions in which they must be involved, without leading to a reduction in status, are at an advantage. An external signal, such as a plumage type, announcing fighting ability and thereby obviating the actual need to fight, could be one such attribute. The zoologist Rohwer assented that plumage variations in "Harris sparrows" support the status signaling hypothesis (SSH). He reported that almost without exception birds with darker throats win conflicts with individuals having lighter plumage. He claimed that even among birds of the same age and sex the amount of dark plumage predicts relative dominance status. However, Rohwer's data do not support his assertions: in one of his studies darker birds won only 57 out of 75 conflicts; within another, focusing on conflicts between birds of the same age group or sex, darker birds won 63 and lost 62. There are indications that plumage probably does signal broad age-related differences in status among Harris sparrows: adults, usually dark throated, have higher status than juveniles, who are usually light throated; moreover, juveniles dyed to resemble adults are dominant over undyed juveniles. However, the Harris sparrows' age-related plumage differences do not signal the status of individual birds within an age class, and thus cannot properly be included under the term "status signaling." The best evidence for status signaling is from the greater titmouse. Experiments show a strong correlation between the width of the black breast-plumage stripe and status as measured by success in aggressive interactions. An analysis of factors likely to be associated with breast-stripe width (sex, age, wing length, body weight) has demonstrated social status to be the only variable that correlates with stripe width when the other variables are held constant. An ingenious experiment provided further evidence for status signaling in the greater titmouse. One of three stuffed titmouse dummies was mounted on a feeding tray. When a live bird approached, the dummy was turned by radio control to face the bird and present its breast stripe in "display." When presented with a dummy having a narrower breast stripe than their own, birds approached closely and behaved aggressively. However, when presented with a dummy having a broader breast stripe than their own, live birds acted submissive and did not approach.

199610_2-RC_3_21

Which one of the following can be inferred about Harris sparrows from the passage?

In The Dynamics of Apocalypse, John Lowe attempts to solve the mystery of the collapse of the Classic Mayan civilization. Lowe bases his study on a detailed examination of the known archaeological record. Like previous investigators, Lowe relies on dated monuments to construct a step-by-step account of the actual collapse. Using the erection of new monuments as a means to determine a site's occupation span, Lowe assumes that once new monuments ceased to be built, a site had been abandoned. Lowe's analysis of the evidence suggests that construction of new monuments continued to increase between A.D. 672 and 751, but that the civilization stopped expanding geographically; new construction took place almost exclusively in established settlements. The first signs of trouble followed. Monument inscriptions indicate that between 751 and 790, long-standing alliances started to break down. Evidence also indicates that between 790 and 830, the death rate in Classic Mayan cities outstripped the birthrate. After approximately 830, construction stopped throughout the area, and within a hundred years, the Classic Mayan civilization all but vanished. Having established this chronology, Lowe sets forth a plausible explanation of the collapse that accommodates the available archaeological evidence. He theorizes that Classic Mayan civilization was brought down by the interaction of several factors, set in motion by population growth. An increase in population, particularly within the elite segment of society, necessitated ever more intense farming. Agricultural intensification exerted stress on the soil and led to a decline in productivity (the amount of food produced through each unit of labor invested). At the same time, the growth of the elite class created increasing demands for ceremonial monuments and luxuries, diverting needed labor from the fields. The theory holds that these stresses were communicated— and amplified—throughout the area as Mayan states engaged in warfare to acquire laborers and food, and refugees fled impoverished areas. The most vulnerable states thus began to break down, and each downfall triggered others, until the entire civilization collapsed. If there is a central flaw in Lowe's explanation, it is that the entire edifice rests on the assumption that the available evidence paints a true picture of how the collapse proceeded. However, it is difficult to know how accurately the archaeological record reflects historic activity, especially of a complex civilization such as the Mayans', and a hypothesis can be tested only against the best available data. It is quite possible that our understanding of the collapse might be radically altered by better data. For example, Lowe's assumption about monument construction and the occupation span of a site might well be disproved if further investigations of Classic Mayan sites established that some remained heavily settled long after the custom of carving dynastic monuments had ceased.

199610_2-RC_4_22

Which one of the following best describes the organization of the passage?

In The Dynamics of Apocalypse, John Lowe attempts to solve the mystery of the collapse of the Classic Mayan civilization. Lowe bases his study on a detailed examination of the known archaeological record. Like previous investigators, Lowe relies on dated monuments to construct a step-by-step account of the actual collapse. Using the erection of new monuments as a means to determine a site's occupation span, Lowe assumes that once new monuments ceased to be built, a site had been abandoned. Lowe's analysis of the evidence suggests that construction of new monuments continued to increase between A.D. 672 and 751, but that the civilization stopped expanding geographically; new construction took place almost exclusively in established settlements. The first signs of trouble followed. Monument inscriptions indicate that between 751 and 790, long-standing alliances started to break down. Evidence also indicates that between 790 and 830, the death rate in Classic Mayan cities outstripped the birthrate. After approximately 830, construction stopped throughout the area, and within a hundred years, the Classic Mayan civilization all but vanished. Having established this chronology, Lowe sets forth a plausible explanation of the collapse that accommodates the available archaeological evidence. He theorizes that Classic Mayan civilization was brought down by the interaction of several factors, set in motion by population growth. An increase in population, particularly within the elite segment of society, necessitated ever more intense farming. Agricultural intensification exerted stress on the soil and led to a decline in productivity (the amount of food produced through each unit of labor invested). At the same time, the growth of the elite class created increasing demands for ceremonial monuments and luxuries, diverting needed labor from the fields. The theory holds that these stresses were communicated— and amplified—throughout the area as Mayan states engaged in warfare to acquire laborers and food, and refugees fled impoverished areas. The most vulnerable states thus began to break down, and each downfall triggered others, until the entire civilization collapsed. If there is a central flaw in Lowe's explanation, it is that the entire edifice rests on the assumption that the available evidence paints a true picture of how the collapse proceeded. However, it is difficult to know how accurately the archaeological record reflects historic activity, especially of a complex civilization such as the Mayans', and a hypothesis can be tested only against the best available data. It is quite possible that our understanding of the collapse might be radically altered by better data. For example, Lowe's assumption about monument construction and the occupation span of a site might well be disproved if further investigations of Classic Mayan sites established that some remained heavily settled long after the custom of carving dynastic monuments had ceased.

199610_2-RC_4_23

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

In The Dynamics of Apocalypse, John Lowe attempts to solve the mystery of the collapse of the Classic Mayan civilization. Lowe bases his study on a detailed examination of the known archaeological record. Like previous investigators, Lowe relies on dated monuments to construct a step-by-step account of the actual collapse. Using the erection of new monuments as a means to determine a site's occupation span, Lowe assumes that once new monuments ceased to be built, a site had been abandoned. Lowe's analysis of the evidence suggests that construction of new monuments continued to increase between A.D. 672 and 751, but that the civilization stopped expanding geographically; new construction took place almost exclusively in established settlements. The first signs of trouble followed. Monument inscriptions indicate that between 751 and 790, long-standing alliances started to break down. Evidence also indicates that between 790 and 830, the death rate in Classic Mayan cities outstripped the birthrate. After approximately 830, construction stopped throughout the area, and within a hundred years, the Classic Mayan civilization all but vanished. Having established this chronology, Lowe sets forth a plausible explanation of the collapse that accommodates the available archaeological evidence. He theorizes that Classic Mayan civilization was brought down by the interaction of several factors, set in motion by population growth. An increase in population, particularly within the elite segment of society, necessitated ever more intense farming. Agricultural intensification exerted stress on the soil and led to a decline in productivity (the amount of food produced through each unit of labor invested). At the same time, the growth of the elite class created increasing demands for ceremonial monuments and luxuries, diverting needed labor from the fields. The theory holds that these stresses were communicated— and amplified—throughout the area as Mayan states engaged in warfare to acquire laborers and food, and refugees fled impoverished areas. The most vulnerable states thus began to break down, and each downfall triggered others, until the entire civilization collapsed. If there is a central flaw in Lowe's explanation, it is that the entire edifice rests on the assumption that the available evidence paints a true picture of how the collapse proceeded. However, it is difficult to know how accurately the archaeological record reflects historic activity, especially of a complex civilization such as the Mayans', and a hypothesis can be tested only against the best available data. It is quite possible that our understanding of the collapse might be radically altered by better data. For example, Lowe's assumption about monument construction and the occupation span of a site might well be disproved if further investigations of Classic Mayan sites established that some remained heavily settled long after the custom of carving dynastic monuments had ceased.

199610_2-RC_4_24

Which one of the following is most closely analogous to the assumption Lowe makes about the relationship between monument construction and Classic Mayan cities?

In The Dynamics of Apocalypse, John Lowe attempts to solve the mystery of the collapse of the Classic Mayan civilization. Lowe bases his study on a detailed examination of the known archaeological record. Like previous investigators, Lowe relies on dated monuments to construct a step-by-step account of the actual collapse. Using the erection of new monuments as a means to determine a site's occupation span, Lowe assumes that once new monuments ceased to be built, a site had been abandoned. Lowe's analysis of the evidence suggests that construction of new monuments continued to increase between A.D. 672 and 751, but that the civilization stopped expanding geographically; new construction took place almost exclusively in established settlements. The first signs of trouble followed. Monument inscriptions indicate that between 751 and 790, long-standing alliances started to break down. Evidence also indicates that between 790 and 830, the death rate in Classic Mayan cities outstripped the birthrate. After approximately 830, construction stopped throughout the area, and within a hundred years, the Classic Mayan civilization all but vanished. Having established this chronology, Lowe sets forth a plausible explanation of the collapse that accommodates the available archaeological evidence. He theorizes that Classic Mayan civilization was brought down by the interaction of several factors, set in motion by population growth. An increase in population, particularly within the elite segment of society, necessitated ever more intense farming. Agricultural intensification exerted stress on the soil and led to a decline in productivity (the amount of food produced through each unit of labor invested). At the same time, the growth of the elite class created increasing demands for ceremonial monuments and luxuries, diverting needed labor from the fields. The theory holds that these stresses were communicated— and amplified—throughout the area as Mayan states engaged in warfare to acquire laborers and food, and refugees fled impoverished areas. The most vulnerable states thus began to break down, and each downfall triggered others, until the entire civilization collapsed. If there is a central flaw in Lowe's explanation, it is that the entire edifice rests on the assumption that the available evidence paints a true picture of how the collapse proceeded. However, it is difficult to know how accurately the archaeological record reflects historic activity, especially of a complex civilization such as the Mayans', and a hypothesis can be tested only against the best available data. It is quite possible that our understanding of the collapse might be radically altered by better data. For example, Lowe's assumption about monument construction and the occupation span of a site might well be disproved if further investigations of Classic Mayan sites established that some remained heavily settled long after the custom of carving dynastic monuments had ceased.

199610_2-RC_4_25

It can be inferred from the passage that the author would describe the method Lowe used to construct a step-by-step chronology of the actual collapse of Classic Mayan civilization as

In The Dynamics of Apocalypse, John Lowe attempts to solve the mystery of the collapse of the Classic Mayan civilization. Lowe bases his study on a detailed examination of the known archaeological record. Like previous investigators, Lowe relies on dated monuments to construct a step-by-step account of the actual collapse. Using the erection of new monuments as a means to determine a site's occupation span, Lowe assumes that once new monuments ceased to be built, a site had been abandoned. Lowe's analysis of the evidence suggests that construction of new monuments continued to increase between A.D. 672 and 751, but that the civilization stopped expanding geographically; new construction took place almost exclusively in established settlements. The first signs of trouble followed. Monument inscriptions indicate that between 751 and 790, long-standing alliances started to break down. Evidence also indicates that between 790 and 830, the death rate in Classic Mayan cities outstripped the birthrate. After approximately 830, construction stopped throughout the area, and within a hundred years, the Classic Mayan civilization all but vanished. Having established this chronology, Lowe sets forth a plausible explanation of the collapse that accommodates the available archaeological evidence. He theorizes that Classic Mayan civilization was brought down by the interaction of several factors, set in motion by population growth. An increase in population, particularly within the elite segment of society, necessitated ever more intense farming. Agricultural intensification exerted stress on the soil and led to a decline in productivity (the amount of food produced through each unit of labor invested). At the same time, the growth of the elite class created increasing demands for ceremonial monuments and luxuries, diverting needed labor from the fields. The theory holds that these stresses were communicated— and amplified—throughout the area as Mayan states engaged in warfare to acquire laborers and food, and refugees fled impoverished areas. The most vulnerable states thus began to break down, and each downfall triggered others, until the entire civilization collapsed. If there is a central flaw in Lowe's explanation, it is that the entire edifice rests on the assumption that the available evidence paints a true picture of how the collapse proceeded. However, it is difficult to know how accurately the archaeological record reflects historic activity, especially of a complex civilization such as the Mayans', and a hypothesis can be tested only against the best available data. It is quite possible that our understanding of the collapse might be radically altered by better data. For example, Lowe's assumption about monument construction and the occupation span of a site might well be disproved if further investigations of Classic Mayan sites established that some remained heavily settled long after the custom of carving dynastic monuments had ceased.

199610_2-RC_4_26

The author of the passage would most likely agree with which one of the following statements about the use of the archaeological record to reconstruct historic activity?

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_1

Which one of the following most accurately states the author's main point?

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_2

It can be inferred that which one of the following is true of the piano music of the London Pianoforte school?

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_3

The author mentions the sonatas of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field as examples of which one of the following?

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_4

Which one of the following, if true, would most clearly undermine a portion of Ringer's argument as the argument is described in the passage?

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_5

It can be inferred that the author uses the word "advances" (line 49) to refer to

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_6

It can be inferred from the passage as a whole that the author's purpose in the third paragraph is primarily to

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_7

The author of the passage is primarily concerned with

Musicologists concerned with the "London Pianoforte school," the group of composers, pedagogues, pianists, publishers, and builders who contributed to the development of the piano in London at the turn of the nineteenth century, have long encountered a formidable obstacle in the general unavailability of music of this "school" in modern scholarly editions. Indeed, much of this repertory has more or less vanished from our historical consciousness. Granted, the sonatas and Gradus ad Parnassum of Muzio Clementi and the nocturnes of John Field have remained familiar enough (though more often than not in editions lacking scholarly rigor), but the work of other leading representatives, like Johann Baptist Cramer and Jan Ladislav Dussek, has eluded serious attempts at revival. Nicholas Temperley's ambitious new anthology decisively overcomes this deficiency. What underscores the intrinsic value of Temperley's editions is that the anthology reproduces nearly all of the original music in facsimile. Making available this cross section of English musical life—some 800 works by 49 composers—should encourage new critical perspectives about how piano music evolved in England, an issue of considerable relevance to our understanding of how piano music developed on the European continent, and of how, finally, the instrument was transformed from the fortepiano to what we know today as the piano. To be sure, the concept of the London Pianoforte school itself calls for review. "School" may well be too strong a word for what was arguably a group unified not so much by stylistic principles or aesthetic creed as by the geographical circumstance that they worked at various times in London and produced pianos and piano music for English pianos and English markets. Indeed, Temperley concedes that their "variety may be so great as to cast doubt on the notion of a 'school.'" The notion of a school was first propounded by Alexander Ringer, who argued that laws of artistic survival forced the young, progressive Beethoven to turn outside Austria for creative models, and that he found inspiration in a group of pianists connected with Clementi in London. Ringer's proposed London Pianoforte school did suggest a circumscribed and fairly unified group—for want of a better term, a school—of musicians whose influence was felt primarily in the decades just before and after 1800. After all, Beethoven did respond to the advances of the Broadwood piano—its reinforced frame, extended compass, triple stringing, and pedals, for example—and it is reasonable to suppose that London pianists who composed music for such an instrument during the critical phase of its development exercised no small degree of influence on Continental musicians. Nevertheless, perhaps the most sensible approach to this issue is to define the school by the period (c. 1766–1873) during which it flourished, as Temperley has done in the anthology.

199612_4-RC_1_8

It can be inferred that Temperley's anthology treats the London Pianoforte school as

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_9

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

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_10

According to the passage, judicial opinions have been described as each of the following EXCEPT:

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_11

Which one of the following statements is most compatible with the principles of the Critical Legal Studies movement as that movement is described in the passage?

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_12

Which one of the following does the passage mention as a similarity between the Critical Legal Studies movement and the Law and Literature movement?

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_13

Which one of the following can be inferred from the passage about the academic study of jurisprudence before the 1970s?

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_14

Proponents of the Law and Literature movement would most likely agree with which one of the following statements concerning the relationship between the law and judges' written opinions?

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_15

Which one of the following phrases best describes the meaning of "re-constitute" as that word is used in line 54 of the passage?

What is "law" ? By what processes do judges arrive at opinions, those documents that justify their belief that the "law" dictates a conclusion one way or the other? These are among the oldest questions in jurisprudence, debate about which has traditionally been dominated by representatives of two schools of thought: proponents of natural law, who see law as intertwined with a moral order independent of society's rules and mores, and legal positivists, who see law solely as embodying the commands of a society's ruling authority. Since the early 1970s, these familiar questions have received some new and surprising answers in the legal academy. This novelty is in part a consequence of the increasing influence there of academic disciplines and intellectual traditions previously unconnected with the study of law. Perhaps the most influential have been the answers given by the Law and Economics school. According to these legal economists, law consists and ought to consist of those rules that maximize a society's material wealth and that abet the efficient operation of markets designed to generate wealth. More controversial have been the various answers provided by members of the Critical Legal Studies movement, according to whom law is one among several cultural mechanisms by which holders of power seek to legitimate their domination. Drawing on related arguments developed in anthropology, sociology, and history, the critical legal scholars contend that law is an expression of power, but not, as held by the positivists, the power of the legitimate sovereign government. Rather, it is an expression of the power of elites who may have no legitimate authority, but who are intent on preserving the privileges of their race, class, or gender. In the mid-1970s, James Boyd White began to articulate yet another interdisciplinary response to the traditional questions, and in so doing spawned what is now known as the Law and Literature movement. White has insisted that law, particularly as it is interpreted in judicial opinions, should be understood as an essentially literary activity. Judicial opinions should be read and evaluated not primarily as political acts or as attempts to maximize society's wealth through efficient rules, but rather as artistic performances. And like all such performances, White argues, each judicial opinion attempts in its own way to promote a particular political or ethical value. In the recent Justice as Translation, White argues that opinion-writing should be regarded as an act of "translation," and judges as "translators." As such, judges find themselves mediating between the authoritative legal text and the pressing legal problem that demands resolution. A judge must essentially "re-constitute" that text by fashioning a new one, which is faithful to the old text but also responsive to and informed by the conditions, constraints, and aspirations of the world in which the new legal problem has arisen.

199612_4-RC_2_16

The primary purpose of the passage is to

Since the early 1920s, most petroleum geologists have favored a biogenic theory for the formation of oil. According to this theory, organic matter became buried in sediments, and subsequent conditions of temperature and pressure over time transformed it into oil. Since 1979 an opposing abiogenic theory about the origin of oil has been promulgated. According to this theory, what is now oil began as hydrocarbon compounds within the earth's mantle (the region between the core and the crust) during the formation of the earth. Oil was created when gases rich in methane, the lightest of the hydrocarbons, rose from the mantle through fractures and faults in the crust, carrying a significant amount of heavier hydrocarbons with them. As the gases encountered intermittent drops in pressure, the heavier hydrocarbons condensed, forming oil, and were deposited in reservoirs throughout the crust. Rock regions deformed by motions of the crustal plates provided the conduits and fractures necessary for the gases to rise through the crust. Opponents of the abiogenic theory charge that hydrocarbons could not exist in the mantle, because high temperatures would destroy or break them down. Advocates of the theory, however, point out that other types of carbon exist in the mantle: unoxidized carbon must exist there, because diamonds are formed within the mantle before being brought to the surface by eruptive processes. Proponents of the abiogenic theory also point to recent experimental work that suggests that the higher pressures within the mantle tend to offset the higher temperatures, allowing hydrocarbons, like unoxidized carbon, to continue to exist in the mantle. If the abiogenic theory is correct, vast undiscovered reservoirs of oil and gas—undiscovered because the biogenic model precludes their existence—may in actuality exist. One company owned by the Swedish government has found the abiogenic theory so persuasive that it has started exploratory drilling for gas or oil in a granite formation call the Siljan Ring—not the best place to look for gas or oil if one believes they are derived from organic compounds, because granite forms from magma (molten rock) and contains no organic sediments. The ring was formed about 360 million years ago when a large meteorite hit the 600-million-year-old granite that forms the base of the continental crust. The impact fractured the granite, and the Swedes believe that if oil comes from the mantle, it could have risen with methane gas through this now permeable rock. Fueling their optimism further is the fact that prior to the start of drilling, methane gas had been detected rising through the granite.

199612_4-RC_3_17

Which one of the following statements best expresses the main idea of the passage?

Since the early 1920s, most petroleum geologists have favored a biogenic theory for the formation of oil. According to this theory, organic matter became buried in sediments, and subsequent conditions of temperature and pressure over time transformed it into oil. Since 1979 an opposing abiogenic theory about the origin of oil has been promulgated. According to this theory, what is now oil began as hydrocarbon compounds within the earth's mantle (the region between the core and the crust) during the formation of the earth. Oil was created when gases rich in methane, the lightest of the hydrocarbons, rose from the mantle through fractures and faults in the crust, carrying a significant amount of heavier hydrocarbons with them. As the gases encountered intermittent drops in pressure, the heavier hydrocarbons condensed, forming oil, and were deposited in reservoirs throughout the crust. Rock regions deformed by motions of the crustal plates provided the conduits and fractures necessary for the gases to rise through the crust. Opponents of the abiogenic theory charge that hydrocarbons could not exist in the mantle, because high temperatures would destroy or break them down. Advocates of the theory, however, point out that other types of carbon exist in the mantle: unoxidized carbon must exist there, because diamonds are formed within the mantle before being brought to the surface by eruptive processes. Proponents of the abiogenic theory also point to recent experimental work that suggests that the higher pressures within the mantle tend to offset the higher temperatures, allowing hydrocarbons, like unoxidized carbon, to continue to exist in the mantle. If the abiogenic theory is correct, vast undiscovered reservoirs of oil and gas—undiscovered because the biogenic model precludes their existence—may in actuality exist. One company owned by the Swedish government has found the abiogenic theory so persuasive that it has started exploratory drilling for gas or oil in a granite formation call the Siljan Ring—not the best place to look for gas or oil if one believes they are derived from organic compounds, because granite forms from magma (molten rock) and contains no organic sediments. The ring was formed about 360 million years ago when a large meteorite hit the 600-million-year-old granite that forms the base of the continental crust. The impact fractured the granite, and the Swedes believe that if oil comes from the mantle, it could have risen with methane gas through this now permeable rock. Fueling their optimism further is the fact that prior to the start of drilling, methane gas had been detected rising through the granite.

199612_4-RC_3_18

Which one of the following best describes the function of the third paragraph?

Since the early 1920s, most petroleum geologists have favored a biogenic theory for the formation of oil. According to this theory, organic matter became buried in sediments, and subsequent conditions of temperature and pressure over time transformed it into oil. Since 1979 an opposing abiogenic theory about the origin of oil has been promulgated. According to this theory, what is now oil began as hydrocarbon compounds within the earth's mantle (the region between the core and the crust) during the formation of the earth. Oil was created when gases rich in methane, the lightest of the hydrocarbons, rose from the mantle through fractures and faults in the crust, carrying a significant amount of heavier hydrocarbons with them. As the gases encountered intermittent drops in pressure, the heavier hydrocarbons condensed, forming oil, and were deposited in reservoirs throughout the crust. Rock regions deformed by motions of the crustal plates provided the conduits and fractures necessary for the gases to rise through the crust. Opponents of the abiogenic theory charge that hydrocarbons could not exist in the mantle, because high temperatures would destroy or break them down. Advocates of the theory, however, point out that other types of carbon exist in the mantle: unoxidized carbon must exist there, because diamonds are formed within the mantle before being brought to the surface by eruptive processes. Proponents of the abiogenic theory also point to recent experimental work that suggests that the higher pressures within the mantle tend to offset the higher temperatures, allowing hydrocarbons, like unoxidized carbon, to continue to exist in the mantle. If the abiogenic theory is correct, vast undiscovered reservoirs of oil and gas—undiscovered because the biogenic model precludes their existence—may in actuality exist. One company owned by the Swedish government has found the abiogenic theory so persuasive that it has started exploratory drilling for gas or oil in a granite formation call the Siljan Ring—not the best place to look for gas or oil if one believes they are derived from organic compounds, because granite forms from magma (molten rock) and contains no organic sediments. The ring was formed about 360 million years ago when a large meteorite hit the 600-million-year-old granite that forms the base of the continental crust. The impact fractured the granite, and the Swedes believe that if oil comes from the mantle, it could have risen with methane gas through this now permeable rock. Fueling their optimism further is the fact that prior to the start of drilling, methane gas had been detected rising through the granite.

199612_4-RC_3_19

The passage suggests that the opponents of the abiogenic theory mentioned in the third paragraph would most probably agree with which one of the following statements?

Since the early 1920s, most petroleum geologists have favored a biogenic theory for the formation of oil. According to this theory, organic matter became buried in sediments, and subsequent conditions of temperature and pressure over time transformed it into oil. Since 1979 an opposing abiogenic theory about the origin of oil has been promulgated. According to this theory, what is now oil began as hydrocarbon compounds within the earth's mantle (the region between the core and the crust) during the formation of the earth. Oil was created when gases rich in methane, the lightest of the hydrocarbons, rose from the mantle through fractures and faults in the crust, carrying a significant amount of heavier hydrocarbons with them. As the gases encountered intermittent drops in pressure, the heavier hydrocarbons condensed, forming oil, and were deposited in reservoirs throughout the crust. Rock regions deformed by motions of the crustal plates provided the conduits and fractures necessary for the gases to rise through the crust. Opponents of the abiogenic theory charge that hydrocarbons could not exist in the mantle, because high temperatures would destroy or break them down. Advocates of the theory, however, point out that other types of carbon exist in the mantle: unoxidized carbon must exist there, because diamonds are formed within the mantle before being brought to the surface by eruptive processes. Proponents of the abiogenic theory also point to recent experimental work that suggests that the higher pressures within the mantle tend to offset the higher temperatures, allowing hydrocarbons, like unoxidized carbon, to continue to exist in the mantle. If the abiogenic theory is correct, vast undiscovered reservoirs of oil and gas—undiscovered because the biogenic model precludes their existence—may in actuality exist. One company owned by the Swedish government has found the abiogenic theory so persuasive that it has started exploratory drilling for gas or oil in a granite formation call the Siljan Ring—not the best place to look for gas or oil if one believes they are derived from organic compounds, because granite forms from magma (molten rock) and contains no organic sediments. The ring was formed about 360 million years ago when a large meteorite hit the 600-million-year-old granite that forms the base of the continental crust. The impact fractured the granite, and the Swedes believe that if oil comes from the mantle, it could have risen with methane gas through this now permeable rock. Fueling their optimism further is the fact that prior to the start of drilling, methane gas had been detected rising through the granite.

199612_4-RC_3_20

Which one of the following is most analogous to the situation described in the final paragraph?

Since the early 1920s, most petroleum geologists have favored a biogenic theory for the formation of oil. According to this theory, organic matter became buried in sediments, and subsequent conditions of temperature and pressure over time transformed it into oil. Since 1979 an opposing abiogenic theory about the origin of oil has been promulgated. According to this theory, what is now oil began as hydrocarbon compounds within the earth's mantle (the region between the core and the crust) during the formation of the earth. Oil was created when gases rich in methane, the lightest of the hydrocarbons, rose from the mantle through fractures and faults in the crust, carrying a significant amount of heavier hydrocarbons with them. As the gases encountered intermittent drops in pressure, the heavier hydrocarbons condensed, forming oil, and were deposited in reservoirs throughout the crust. Rock regions deformed by motions of the crustal plates provided the conduits and fractures necessary for the gases to rise through the crust. Opponents of the abiogenic theory charge that hydrocarbons could not exist in the mantle, because high temperatures would destroy or break them down. Advocates of the theory, however, point out that other types of carbon exist in the mantle: unoxidized carbon must exist there, because diamonds are formed within the mantle before being brought to the surface by eruptive processes. Proponents of the abiogenic theory also point to recent experimental work that suggests that the higher pressures within the mantle tend to offset the higher temperatures, allowing hydrocarbons, like unoxidized carbon, to continue to exist in the mantle. If the abiogenic theory is correct, vast undiscovered reservoirs of oil and gas—undiscovered because the biogenic model precludes their existence—may in actuality exist. One company owned by the Swedish government has found the abiogenic theory so persuasive that it has started exploratory drilling for gas or oil in a granite formation call the Siljan Ring—not the best place to look for gas or oil if one believes they are derived from organic compounds, because granite forms from magma (molten rock) and contains no organic sediments. The ring was formed about 360 million years ago when a large meteorite hit the 600-million-year-old granite that forms the base of the continental crust. The impact fractured the granite, and the Swedes believe that if oil comes from the mantle, it could have risen with methane gas through this now permeable rock. Fueling their optimism further is the fact that prior to the start of drilling, methane gas had been detected rising through the granite.

199612_4-RC_3_21

According to the passage, all of the following are true of the Siljan Ring EXCEPT:

Most studies of recent Southeast Asian immigrants to the United States have focused on their adjustment to life in their adopted country and on the effects of leaving their homelands. James Tollefson's Alien Winds examines the resettlement process from a different perspective by investigating the educational programs offered in immigrant processing centers. Based on interviews, transcripts from classes, essays by immigrants, personal visits to a teacher-training unit, and official government documents, Tollefson relies on an impressive amount and variety of documentation in making his arguments about processing centers' educational programs. Tollefson's main contention is that the emphasis placed on immediate employment and on teaching the values, attitudes, and behaviors that the training personnel think will help the immigrants adjust more easily to life in the United States is often counterproductive and demoralizing. Because of concerns that the immigrants be self-supporting as soon as possible, they are trained almost exclusively for low-level jobs that do not require English proficiency. In this respect, Tollefson claims, the processing centers suit the needs of employers more than they suit the long-term needs of the immigrant community. Tollefson also detects a fundamental flaw in the attempts by program educators to instill in the immigrants the traditionally Western principles of self-sufficiency and individual success. These efforts often have the effect of undermining the immigrants' sense of community and, in doing so, sometimes isolate them from the moral support and even from business opportunities afforded by the immigrant community. The programs also encourage the immigrants to shed their cultural traditions and ethnic identity and adopt the lifestyles, beliefs, and characteristics of their adopted country if they wish to enter fully into the national life. Tollefson notes that the ideological nature of these educational programs has roots in the turn-of-the-century educational programs designed to assimilate European immigrants into United States society. Tollefson provides a concise history of the assimilationist movement in immigrant education, in which European immigrants were encouraged to leave behind the ways of the Old World and to adopt instead the principles and practices of the New World. Tollefson ably shows that the issues demanding real attention in the educational programs for Southeast Asian immigrants are not merely employment rates and government funding, but also the assumptions underpinning the educational values in the programs. He recommends many improvements for the programs, including giving the immigrants a stronger voice in determining their needs and how to meet them, redesigning the curricula, and emphasizing long-term language education and job training over immediate employment and the avoiding of public assistance. Unfortunately, though, Tollefson does not offer enough concrete solutions as to how these reforms could be carried out, despite his own descriptions of the complicated bureaucratic nature of the programs.

199612_4-RC_4_22

Which one of the following statements best expresses the main idea of the passage?

Most studies of recent Southeast Asian immigrants to the United States have focused on their adjustment to life in their adopted country and on the effects of leaving their homelands. James Tollefson's Alien Winds examines the resettlement process from a different perspective by investigating the educational programs offered in immigrant processing centers. Based on interviews, transcripts from classes, essays by immigrants, personal visits to a teacher-training unit, and official government documents, Tollefson relies on an impressive amount and variety of documentation in making his arguments about processing centers' educational programs. Tollefson's main contention is that the emphasis placed on immediate employment and on teaching the values, attitudes, and behaviors that the training personnel think will help the immigrants adjust more easily to life in the United States is often counterproductive and demoralizing. Because of concerns that the immigrants be self-supporting as soon as possible, they are trained almost exclusively for low-level jobs that do not require English proficiency. In this respect, Tollefson claims, the processing centers suit the needs of employers more than they suit the long-term needs of the immigrant community. Tollefson also detects a fundamental flaw in the attempts by program educators to instill in the immigrants the traditionally Western principles of self-sufficiency and individual success. These efforts often have the effect of undermining the immigrants' sense of community and, in doing so, sometimes isolate them from the moral support and even from business opportunities afforded by the immigrant community. The programs also encourage the immigrants to shed their cultural traditions and ethnic identity and adopt the lifestyles, beliefs, and characteristics of their adopted country if they wish to enter fully into the national life. Tollefson notes that the ideological nature of these educational programs has roots in the turn-of-the-century educational programs designed to assimilate European immigrants into United States society. Tollefson provides a concise history of the assimilationist movement in immigrant education, in which European immigrants were encouraged to leave behind the ways of the Old World and to adopt instead the principles and practices of the New World. Tollefson ably shows that the issues demanding real attention in the educational programs for Southeast Asian immigrants are not merely employment rates and government funding, but also the assumptions underpinning the educational values in the programs. He recommends many improvements for the programs, including giving the immigrants a stronger voice in determining their needs and how to meet them, redesigning the curricula, and emphasizing long-term language education and job training over immediate employment and the avoiding of public assistance. Unfortunately, though, Tollefson does not offer enough concrete solutions as to how these reforms could be carried out, despite his own descriptions of the complicated bureaucratic nature of the programs.

199612_4-RC_4_23

With which one of the following statements concerning the educational programs of the immigration centers would Tollefson most probably agree?

Most studies of recent Southeast Asian immigrants to the United States have focused on their adjustment to life in their adopted country and on the effects of leaving their homelands. James Tollefson's Alien Winds examines the resettlement process from a different perspective by investigating the educational programs offered in immigrant processing centers. Based on interviews, transcripts from classes, essays by immigrants, personal visits to a teacher-training unit, and official government documents, Tollefson relies on an impressive amount and variety of documentation in making his arguments about processing centers' educational programs. Tollefson's main contention is that the emphasis placed on immediate employment and on teaching the values, attitudes, and behaviors that the training personnel think will help the immigrants adjust more easily to life in the United States is often counterproductive and demoralizing. Because of concerns that the immigrants be self-supporting as soon as possible, they are trained almost exclusively for low-level jobs that do not require English proficiency. In this respect, Tollefson claims, the processing centers suit the needs of employers more than they suit the long-term needs of the immigrant community. Tollefson also detects a fundamental flaw in the attempts by program educators to instill in the immigrants the traditionally Western principles of self-sufficiency and individual success. These efforts often have the effect of undermining the immigrants' sense of community and, in doing so, sometimes isolate them from the moral support and even from business opportunities afforded by the immigrant community. The programs also encourage the immigrants to shed their cultural traditions and ethnic identity and adopt the lifestyles, beliefs, and characteristics of their adopted country if they wish to enter fully into the national life. Tollefson notes that the ideological nature of these educational programs has roots in the turn-of-the-century educational programs designed to assimilate European immigrants into United States society. Tollefson provides a concise history of the assimilationist movement in immigrant education, in which European immigrants were encouraged to leave behind the ways of the Old World and to adopt instead the principles and practices of the New World. Tollefson ably shows that the issues demanding real attention in the educational programs for Southeast Asian immigrants are not merely employment rates and government funding, but also the assumptions underpinning the educational values in the programs. He recommends many improvements for the programs, including giving the immigrants a stronger voice in determining their needs and how to meet them, redesigning the curricula, and emphasizing long-term language education and job training over immediate employment and the avoiding of public assistance. Unfortunately, though, Tollefson does not offer enough concrete solutions as to how these reforms could be carried out, despite his own descriptions of the complicated bureaucratic nature of the programs.

199612_4-RC_4_24

Which one of the following best describes the opinion of the author of the passage with respect to Tollefson's work?

Most studies of recent Southeast Asian immigrants to the United States have focused on their adjustment to life in their adopted country and on the effects of leaving their homelands. James Tollefson's Alien Winds examines the resettlement process from a different perspective by investigating the educational programs offered in immigrant processing centers. Based on interviews, transcripts from classes, essays by immigrants, personal visits to a teacher-training unit, and official government documents, Tollefson relies on an impressive amount and variety of documentation in making his arguments about processing centers' educational programs. Tollefson's main contention is that the emphasis placed on immediate employment and on teaching the values, attitudes, and behaviors that the training personnel think will help the immigrants adjust more easily to life in the United States is often counterproductive and demoralizing. Because of concerns that the immigrants be self-supporting as soon as possible, they are trained almost exclusively for low-level jobs that do not require English proficiency. In this respect, Tollefson claims, the processing centers suit the needs of employers more than they suit the long-term needs of the immigrant community. Tollefson also detects a fundamental flaw in the attempts by program educators to instill in the immigrants the traditionally Western principles of self-sufficiency and individual success. These efforts often have the effect of undermining the immigrants' sense of community and, in doing so, sometimes isolate them from the moral support and even from business opportunities afforded by the immigrant community. The programs also encourage the immigrants to shed their cultural traditions and ethnic identity and adopt the lifestyles, beliefs, and characteristics of their adopted country if they wish to enter fully into the national life. Tollefson notes that the ideological nature of these educational programs has roots in the turn-of-the-century educational programs designed to assimilate European immigrants into United States society. Tollefson provides a concise history of the assimilationist movement in immigrant education, in which European immigrants were encouraged to leave behind the ways of the Old World and to adopt instead the principles and practices of the New World. Tollefson ably shows that the issues demanding real attention in the educational programs for Southeast Asian immigrants are not merely employment rates and government funding, but also the assumptions underpinning the educational values in the programs. He recommends many improvements for the programs, including giving the immigrants a stronger voice in determining their needs and how to meet them, redesigning the curricula, and emphasizing long-term language education and job training over immediate employment and the avoiding of public assistance. Unfortunately, though, Tollefson does not offer enough concrete solutions as to how these reforms could be carried out, despite his own descriptions of the complicated bureaucratic nature of the programs.

199612_4-RC_4_25

The passage suggests that which one of the following is an assumption underlying the educational approach in immigrant processing centers?

Most studies of recent Southeast Asian immigrants to the United States have focused on their adjustment to life in their adopted country and on the effects of leaving their homelands. James Tollefson's Alien Winds examines the resettlement process from a different perspective by investigating the educational programs offered in immigrant processing centers. Based on interviews, transcripts from classes, essays by immigrants, personal visits to a teacher-training unit, and official government documents, Tollefson relies on an impressive amount and variety of documentation in making his arguments about processing centers' educational programs. Tollefson's main contention is that the emphasis placed on immediate employment and on teaching the values, attitudes, and behaviors that the training personnel think will help the immigrants adjust more easily to life in the United States is often counterproductive and demoralizing. Because of concerns that the immigrants be self-supporting as soon as possible, they are trained almost exclusively for low-level jobs that do not require English proficiency. In this respect, Tollefson claims, the processing centers suit the needs of employers more than they suit the long-term needs of the immigrant community. Tollefson also detects a fundamental flaw in the attempts by program educators to instill in the immigrants the traditionally Western principles of self-sufficiency and individual success. These efforts often have the effect of undermining the immigrants' sense of community and, in doing so, sometimes isolate them from the moral support and even from business opportunities afforded by the immigrant community. The programs also encourage the immigrants to shed their cultural traditions and ethnic identity and adopt the lifestyles, beliefs, and characteristics of their adopted country if they wish to enter fully into the national life. Tollefson notes that the ideological nature of these educational programs has roots in the turn-of-the-century educational programs designed to assimilate European immigrants into United States society. Tollefson provides a concise history of the assimilationist movement in immigrant education, in which European immigrants were encouraged to leave behind the ways of the Old World and to adopt instead the principles and practices of the New World. Tollefson ably shows that the issues demanding real attention in the educational programs for Southeast Asian immigrants are not merely employment rates and government funding, but also the assumptions underpinning the educational values in the programs. He recommends many improvements for the programs, including giving the immigrants a stronger voice in determining their needs and how to meet them, redesigning the curricula, and emphasizing long-term language education and job training over immediate employment and the avoiding of public assistance. Unfortunately, though, Tollefson does not offer enough concrete solutions as to how these reforms could be carried out, despite his own descriptions of the complicated bureaucratic nature of the programs.

199612_4-RC_4_26

Which one of the following best describes the function of the first paragraph of the passage?

Most studies of recent Southeast Asian immigrants to the United States have focused on their adjustment to life in their adopted country and on the effects of leaving their homelands. James Tollefson's Alien Winds examines the resettlement process from a different perspective by investigating the educational programs offered in immigrant processing centers. Based on interviews, transcripts from classes, essays by immigrants, personal visits to a teacher-training unit, and official government documents, Tollefson relies on an impressive amount and variety of documentation in making his arguments about processing centers' educational programs. Tollefson's main contention is that the emphasis placed on immediate employment and on teaching the values, attitudes, and behaviors that the training personnel think will help the immigrants adjust more easily to life in the United States is often counterproductive and demoralizing. Because of concerns that the immigrants be self-supporting as soon as possible, they are trained almost exclusively for low-level jobs that do not require English proficiency. In this respect, Tollefson claims, the processing centers suit the needs of employers more than they suit the long-term needs of the immigrant community. Tollefson also detects a fundamental flaw in the attempts by program educators to instill in the immigrants the traditionally Western principles of self-sufficiency and individual success. These efforts often have the effect of undermining the immigrants' sense of community and, in doing so, sometimes isolate them from the moral support and even from business opportunities afforded by the immigrant community. The programs also encourage the immigrants to shed their cultural traditions and ethnic identity and adopt the lifestyles, beliefs, and characteristics of their adopted country if they wish to enter fully into the national life. Tollefson notes that the ideological nature of these educational programs has roots in the turn-of-the-century educational programs designed to assimilate European immigrants into United States society. Tollefson provides a concise history of the assimilationist movement in immigrant education, in which European immigrants were encouraged to leave behind the ways of the Old World and to adopt instead the principles and practices of the New World. Tollefson ably shows that the issues demanding real attention in the educational programs for Southeast Asian immigrants are not merely employment rates and government funding, but also the assumptions underpinning the educational values in the programs. He recommends many improvements for the programs, including giving the immigrants a stronger voice in determining their needs and how to meet them, redesigning the curricula, and emphasizing long-term language education and job training over immediate employment and the avoiding of public assistance. Unfortunately, though, Tollefson does not offer enough concrete solutions as to how these reforms could be carried out, despite his own descriptions of the complicated bureaucratic nature of the programs.

199612_4-RC_4_27

The author of the passage refers to Tollefson's descriptions of the bureaucratic nature of the immigrant educational programs in the fourth paragraph most probably in order to

Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_1

The passage is primarily concerned with

Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_2

The passage supports which one of the following statements about the treatment of childhood in medieval documents?

Historian Philippe Ariès claimed that in medieval Europe childhood was not viewed as a distinct period in human development, with a special character and needs. His argument for this thesis relied heavily on medieval text illustrations, which distinguish children from adults principally by their stature, rather than by a distinctively childlike appearance:the children look like miniature adults. Ariès also suggested that high infant mortality rates in the Middle Ages induced indifference toward offspring as a defense mechanism against establishing close ties with infants unlikely to survive. Shulamith Shahar's recent research challenges this established conception of the medieval view of childhood. Shahar has had to work hard to find evidence to support her interpretation of the medieval conception of childhood, since works that reveal parents' personal attitudes, such as Giovanni Morelli's journal, are exceptional. Shahar makes intelligent use of medical writing and theological works. Particularly illuminating are medieval accounts of saints' lives, which despite their emphasis on personal piety reveal much concerning their subjects' childhoods and which provide evidence of parental concern for children. Even more significant are accounts of saints' miracles involving the healing of sick infants and the blessing of young couples with children. Shahar also discusses the period in childhood from ages 7 to 11 when boys of the wealthier classes were placed in monasteries or as apprentices in the household of a "master" of a trade. To some this custom might imply a perception of childhood insufficiently distinguished from adulthood, or even indifference to children, evidenced by the willingness to send young children away from home. Shahar points out, however, that training was in stages, and children were not expected to live as adults or to assume all the tasks of maturity at once. Furthermore, Shahar quotes a telling number of instances in which parents of apprentices sued masters for maltreatment of their children. Shahar concludes that parents placed their children in monasteries or as apprentices not to be rid of them, but because it was a social norm to ensure one's children a future niche in society. Shahar's work is highly persuasive, but as a rebuttal to Ariès, it is uncomfortably incomplete. Shahar succeeds in demonstrating that people in the Middle Ages did view childhood as a definite stage in human development and that they were not indifferent toward their children. But central to Ariès' position was the contention that the family as a powerful and private institution organized around children is a relatively modern ideal, whose origins Ariès related to the growing influence of the middle classes in the postmedieval period. Ariès felt that this implied something novel about the development of perceptions of childhood and of the family. Shahar does not comment on these larger issues.

199702_2-RC_1_3

Which one of the following best describes the function of the first paragraph of the passage?