Datasets:

tasksource

/

lsat-rc

like 0

A fake can be defined as an artwork intended to deceive. The motives of its creator are decisive, and the merit of the object itself is a separate issue. The question mark in the title of Mark Jones's Fake? The Art of Deception reveals the study's broader concerns. Indeed, it might equally be entitled Original?, and the text begins by noting a variety of possibilities somewhere between the two extremes. These include works by an artist's followers in the style of the master, deliberate archaism, copying for pedagogical purposes, and the production of commercial facsimiles. The greater part of Fake? is devoted to a chronological survey suggesting that faking feeds on the many different motives people have for collecting art, and that, on the whole, the faking of art flourishes whenever art collecting flourishes. In imperial Rome there was a widespread interest in collecting earlier Greek art, and therefore, in faking it. No doubt many of the sculptures now exhibited as "Roman copies" were originally passed off as Greek. In medieval Europe, because art was celebrated more for its devotional uses than for its provenance or the ingenuity of its creators, the faking of art was virtually nonexistent. The modern age of faking again in the Italian Renaissance, with two linked developments: a passionate identification with the world of antiquity and a growing sense of individual artistic identity. A patron of the young Michelangelo prevailed upon the artist to make his sculpture Sleeping Cupid look as though it had been buried in the earth so that "it will be taken for antique, and you will sell it much better." Within a few years, however, beginning with his first masterpiece, the Bacchus, Michelangelo had shown his contemporaries that great art can assimilate and transcend what came before, resulting in a wholly original work. Soon his genius made him the object of imitators. Fake? also reminds us that in certain cultures authenticity is a foreign concept. This is true of much African art, where the authenticity of an object is considered by collectors to depend on its function. As an illustration, the study compares two versions of a chi wara mask made by the Bambara people of Mali. One has pegs allowing it to be attached to a cap for its intended ceremonial purpose. The second, otherwise identical, lacks the pegs and is a replica made for sale. African carving is notoriously difficult to date, but even if the ritual mask is recent, made perhaps to replace a damaged predecessor, and the replica much older, only the ritual mask should be seen as authentic, for it is tied to the form's original function. That, at least, is the consensus of the so-called experts. One wonders whether the Bambaran artists would agree.

199712_1-RC_4_25

The author implies which one of the following about the artistic merits of fakes?

A fake can be defined as an artwork intended to deceive. The motives of its creator are decisive, and the merit of the object itself is a separate issue. The question mark in the title of Mark Jones's Fake? The Art of Deception reveals the study's broader concerns. Indeed, it might equally be entitled Original?, and the text begins by noting a variety of possibilities somewhere between the two extremes. These include works by an artist's followers in the style of the master, deliberate archaism, copying for pedagogical purposes, and the production of commercial facsimiles. The greater part of Fake? is devoted to a chronological survey suggesting that faking feeds on the many different motives people have for collecting art, and that, on the whole, the faking of art flourishes whenever art collecting flourishes. In imperial Rome there was a widespread interest in collecting earlier Greek art, and therefore, in faking it. No doubt many of the sculptures now exhibited as "Roman copies" were originally passed off as Greek. In medieval Europe, because art was celebrated more for its devotional uses than for its provenance or the ingenuity of its creators, the faking of art was virtually nonexistent. The modern age of faking again in the Italian Renaissance, with two linked developments: a passionate identification with the world of antiquity and a growing sense of individual artistic identity. A patron of the young Michelangelo prevailed upon the artist to make his sculpture Sleeping Cupid look as though it had been buried in the earth so that "it will be taken for antique, and you will sell it much better." Within a few years, however, beginning with his first masterpiece, the Bacchus, Michelangelo had shown his contemporaries that great art can assimilate and transcend what came before, resulting in a wholly original work. Soon his genius made him the object of imitators. Fake? also reminds us that in certain cultures authenticity is a foreign concept. This is true of much African art, where the authenticity of an object is considered by collectors to depend on its function. As an illustration, the study compares two versions of a chi wara mask made by the Bambara people of Mali. One has pegs allowing it to be attached to a cap for its intended ceremonial purpose. The second, otherwise identical, lacks the pegs and is a replica made for sale. African carving is notoriously difficult to date, but even if the ritual mask is recent, made perhaps to replace a damaged predecessor, and the replica much older, only the ritual mask should be seen as authentic, for it is tied to the form's original function. That, at least, is the consensus of the so-called experts. One wonders whether the Bambaran artists would agree.

199712_1-RC_4_26

By the standard described in the last paragraph of the passage, which one of the following would be considered authentic?

A fake can be defined as an artwork intended to deceive. The motives of its creator are decisive, and the merit of the object itself is a separate issue. The question mark in the title of Mark Jones's Fake? The Art of Deception reveals the study's broader concerns. Indeed, it might equally be entitled Original?, and the text begins by noting a variety of possibilities somewhere between the two extremes. These include works by an artist's followers in the style of the master, deliberate archaism, copying for pedagogical purposes, and the production of commercial facsimiles. The greater part of Fake? is devoted to a chronological survey suggesting that faking feeds on the many different motives people have for collecting art, and that, on the whole, the faking of art flourishes whenever art collecting flourishes. In imperial Rome there was a widespread interest in collecting earlier Greek art, and therefore, in faking it. No doubt many of the sculptures now exhibited as "Roman copies" were originally passed off as Greek. In medieval Europe, because art was celebrated more for its devotional uses than for its provenance or the ingenuity of its creators, the faking of art was virtually nonexistent. The modern age of faking again in the Italian Renaissance, with two linked developments: a passionate identification with the world of antiquity and a growing sense of individual artistic identity. A patron of the young Michelangelo prevailed upon the artist to make his sculpture Sleeping Cupid look as though it had been buried in the earth so that "it will be taken for antique, and you will sell it much better." Within a few years, however, beginning with his first masterpiece, the Bacchus, Michelangelo had shown his contemporaries that great art can assimilate and transcend what came before, resulting in a wholly original work. Soon his genius made him the object of imitators. Fake? also reminds us that in certain cultures authenticity is a foreign concept. This is true of much African art, where the authenticity of an object is considered by collectors to depend on its function. As an illustration, the study compares two versions of a chi wara mask made by the Bambara people of Mali. One has pegs allowing it to be attached to a cap for its intended ceremonial purpose. The second, otherwise identical, lacks the pegs and is a replica made for sale. African carving is notoriously difficult to date, but even if the ritual mask is recent, made perhaps to replace a damaged predecessor, and the replica much older, only the ritual mask should be seen as authentic, for it is tied to the form's original function. That, at least, is the consensus of the so-called experts. One wonders whether the Bambaran artists would agree.

199712_1-RC_4_27

Which one of the following best describes how the last paragraph functions in the context of the passage?

Most office workers assume that the messages they send to each other via electronic mail are as private as a telephone call or a face-to-face meeting. That assumption is wrong. Although it is illegal in many areas for an employer to eavesdrop on private conversations or telephone calls—even if they take place on a company-owned telephone—there are no clear rules governing electronic mail. In fact, the question of how private electronic mail transmissions should be has emerged as one of the more complicated legal issues of the electronic age. People's opinions about the degree of privacy that electronic mail should have vary depending on whose electronic mail system is being used and who is reading the messages. Does a government office, for example, have the right to destroy electronic messages created in the course of running the government, thereby denying public access to such documents? Some hold that government offices should issue guidelines that allow their staff to delete such electronic records, and defend this practice by claiming that the messages thus deleted already exist in paper versions whose destruction is forbidden. Opponents of such practices argue that the paper versions often omit such information as who received the messages and when they received them, information commonly carried on electronic mail systems. Government officials, opponents maintain, are civil servants; the public should thus have the right to review any documents created during the conducting of government business. Questions about electronic mail privacy have also arisen in the private sector. Recently, two employees of an automotive company were discovered to have been communicating disparaging information about their supervisor via electronic mail. The supervisor, who had been monitoring the communication, threatened to fire the employees. When the employees filed a grievance complaining that their privacy had been violated, they were let go. Later, their court case for unlawful termination was dismissed; the company's lawyers successfully argued that because the company owned the computer system, its supervisors had the right to read anything created on it. In some areas, laws prohibit outside interception of electronic mail by a third party without proper authorization such as a search warrant. However, these laws to not cover "inside" interception such as occurred at the automotive company. In the past, courts have ruled that interoffice communications may be considered private only if employees have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy when they send the messages. The fact is that no absolute guarantee of privacy exists in any computer system. The only solution may be for users to scramble their own messages with encryption codes; unfortunately, such complex codes are likely to undermine the principal virtue of electronic mail: its convenience.

199806_1-RC_1_1

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

Most office workers assume that the messages they send to each other via electronic mail are as private as a telephone call or a face-to-face meeting. That assumption is wrong. Although it is illegal in many areas for an employer to eavesdrop on private conversations or telephone calls—even if they take place on a company-owned telephone—there are no clear rules governing electronic mail. In fact, the question of how private electronic mail transmissions should be has emerged as one of the more complicated legal issues of the electronic age. People's opinions about the degree of privacy that electronic mail should have vary depending on whose electronic mail system is being used and who is reading the messages. Does a government office, for example, have the right to destroy electronic messages created in the course of running the government, thereby denying public access to such documents? Some hold that government offices should issue guidelines that allow their staff to delete such electronic records, and defend this practice by claiming that the messages thus deleted already exist in paper versions whose destruction is forbidden. Opponents of such practices argue that the paper versions often omit such information as who received the messages and when they received them, information commonly carried on electronic mail systems. Government officials, opponents maintain, are civil servants; the public should thus have the right to review any documents created during the conducting of government business. Questions about electronic mail privacy have also arisen in the private sector. Recently, two employees of an automotive company were discovered to have been communicating disparaging information about their supervisor via electronic mail. The supervisor, who had been monitoring the communication, threatened to fire the employees. When the employees filed a grievance complaining that their privacy had been violated, they were let go. Later, their court case for unlawful termination was dismissed; the company's lawyers successfully argued that because the company owned the computer system, its supervisors had the right to read anything created on it. In some areas, laws prohibit outside interception of electronic mail by a third party without proper authorization such as a search warrant. However, these laws to not cover "inside" interception such as occurred at the automotive company. In the past, courts have ruled that interoffice communications may be considered private only if employees have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy when they send the messages. The fact is that no absolute guarantee of privacy exists in any computer system. The only solution may be for users to scramble their own messages with encryption codes; unfortunately, such complex codes are likely to undermine the principal virtue of electronic mail: its convenience.

199806_1-RC_1_2

According to the passage, which one of the following best expresses the reason some people use to oppose the deletion of electronic mail records at government offices?

Most office workers assume that the messages they send to each other via electronic mail are as private as a telephone call or a face-to-face meeting. That assumption is wrong. Although it is illegal in many areas for an employer to eavesdrop on private conversations or telephone calls—even if they take place on a company-owned telephone—there are no clear rules governing electronic mail. In fact, the question of how private electronic mail transmissions should be has emerged as one of the more complicated legal issues of the electronic age. People's opinions about the degree of privacy that electronic mail should have vary depending on whose electronic mail system is being used and who is reading the messages. Does a government office, for example, have the right to destroy electronic messages created in the course of running the government, thereby denying public access to such documents? Some hold that government offices should issue guidelines that allow their staff to delete such electronic records, and defend this practice by claiming that the messages thus deleted already exist in paper versions whose destruction is forbidden. Opponents of such practices argue that the paper versions often omit such information as who received the messages and when they received them, information commonly carried on electronic mail systems. Government officials, opponents maintain, are civil servants; the public should thus have the right to review any documents created during the conducting of government business. Questions about electronic mail privacy have also arisen in the private sector. Recently, two employees of an automotive company were discovered to have been communicating disparaging information about their supervisor via electronic mail. The supervisor, who had been monitoring the communication, threatened to fire the employees. When the employees filed a grievance complaining that their privacy had been violated, they were let go. Later, their court case for unlawful termination was dismissed; the company's lawyers successfully argued that because the company owned the computer system, its supervisors had the right to read anything created on it. In some areas, laws prohibit outside interception of electronic mail by a third party without proper authorization such as a search warrant. However, these laws to not cover "inside" interception such as occurred at the automotive company. In the past, courts have ruled that interoffice communications may be considered private only if employees have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy when they send the messages. The fact is that no absolute guarantee of privacy exists in any computer system. The only solution may be for users to scramble their own messages with encryption codes; unfortunately, such complex codes are likely to undermine the principal virtue of electronic mail: its convenience.

199806_1-RC_1_3

Which one of the following most accurately states the organization of the passage?

Most office workers assume that the messages they send to each other via electronic mail are as private as a telephone call or a face-to-face meeting. That assumption is wrong. Although it is illegal in many areas for an employer to eavesdrop on private conversations or telephone calls—even if they take place on a company-owned telephone—there are no clear rules governing electronic mail. In fact, the question of how private electronic mail transmissions should be has emerged as one of the more complicated legal issues of the electronic age. People's opinions about the degree of privacy that electronic mail should have vary depending on whose electronic mail system is being used and who is reading the messages. Does a government office, for example, have the right to destroy electronic messages created in the course of running the government, thereby denying public access to such documents? Some hold that government offices should issue guidelines that allow their staff to delete such electronic records, and defend this practice by claiming that the messages thus deleted already exist in paper versions whose destruction is forbidden. Opponents of such practices argue that the paper versions often omit such information as who received the messages and when they received them, information commonly carried on electronic mail systems. Government officials, opponents maintain, are civil servants; the public should thus have the right to review any documents created during the conducting of government business. Questions about electronic mail privacy have also arisen in the private sector. Recently, two employees of an automotive company were discovered to have been communicating disparaging information about their supervisor via electronic mail. The supervisor, who had been monitoring the communication, threatened to fire the employees. When the employees filed a grievance complaining that their privacy had been violated, they were let go. Later, their court case for unlawful termination was dismissed; the company's lawyers successfully argued that because the company owned the computer system, its supervisors had the right to read anything created on it. In some areas, laws prohibit outside interception of electronic mail by a third party without proper authorization such as a search warrant. However, these laws to not cover "inside" interception such as occurred at the automotive company. In the past, courts have ruled that interoffice communications may be considered private only if employees have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy when they send the messages. The fact is that no absolute guarantee of privacy exists in any computer system. The only solution may be for users to scramble their own messages with encryption codes; unfortunately, such complex codes are likely to undermine the principal virtue of electronic mail: its convenience.

199806_1-RC_1_4

Based on the passage, the author's attitude toward interception of electronic mail can most accurately be described as

Most office workers assume that the messages they send to each other via electronic mail are as private as a telephone call or a face-to-face meeting. That assumption is wrong. Although it is illegal in many areas for an employer to eavesdrop on private conversations or telephone calls—even if they take place on a company-owned telephone—there are no clear rules governing electronic mail. In fact, the question of how private electronic mail transmissions should be has emerged as one of the more complicated legal issues of the electronic age. People's opinions about the degree of privacy that electronic mail should have vary depending on whose electronic mail system is being used and who is reading the messages. Does a government office, for example, have the right to destroy electronic messages created in the course of running the government, thereby denying public access to such documents? Some hold that government offices should issue guidelines that allow their staff to delete such electronic records, and defend this practice by claiming that the messages thus deleted already exist in paper versions whose destruction is forbidden. Opponents of such practices argue that the paper versions often omit such information as who received the messages and when they received them, information commonly carried on electronic mail systems. Government officials, opponents maintain, are civil servants; the public should thus have the right to review any documents created during the conducting of government business. Questions about electronic mail privacy have also arisen in the private sector. Recently, two employees of an automotive company were discovered to have been communicating disparaging information about their supervisor via electronic mail. The supervisor, who had been monitoring the communication, threatened to fire the employees. When the employees filed a grievance complaining that their privacy had been violated, they were let go. Later, their court case for unlawful termination was dismissed; the company's lawyers successfully argued that because the company owned the computer system, its supervisors had the right to read anything created on it. In some areas, laws prohibit outside interception of electronic mail by a third party without proper authorization such as a search warrant. However, these laws to not cover "inside" interception such as occurred at the automotive company. In the past, courts have ruled that interoffice communications may be considered private only if employees have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy when they send the messages. The fact is that no absolute guarantee of privacy exists in any computer system. The only solution may be for users to scramble their own messages with encryption codes; unfortunately, such complex codes are likely to undermine the principal virtue of electronic mail: its convenience.

199806_1-RC_1_5

It can be inferred from the passage that the author would most likely hold which one of the following opinions about an encryption system that could encode and decode electronic mail messages with a single keystroke?

Most office workers assume that the messages they send to each other via electronic mail are as private as a telephone call or a face-to-face meeting. That assumption is wrong. Although it is illegal in many areas for an employer to eavesdrop on private conversations or telephone calls—even if they take place on a company-owned telephone—there are no clear rules governing electronic mail. In fact, the question of how private electronic mail transmissions should be has emerged as one of the more complicated legal issues of the electronic age. People's opinions about the degree of privacy that electronic mail should have vary depending on whose electronic mail system is being used and who is reading the messages. Does a government office, for example, have the right to destroy electronic messages created in the course of running the government, thereby denying public access to such documents? Some hold that government offices should issue guidelines that allow their staff to delete such electronic records, and defend this practice by claiming that the messages thus deleted already exist in paper versions whose destruction is forbidden. Opponents of such practices argue that the paper versions often omit such information as who received the messages and when they received them, information commonly carried on electronic mail systems. Government officials, opponents maintain, are civil servants; the public should thus have the right to review any documents created during the conducting of government business. Questions about electronic mail privacy have also arisen in the private sector. Recently, two employees of an automotive company were discovered to have been communicating disparaging information about their supervisor via electronic mail. The supervisor, who had been monitoring the communication, threatened to fire the employees. When the employees filed a grievance complaining that their privacy had been violated, they were let go. Later, their court case for unlawful termination was dismissed; the company's lawyers successfully argued that because the company owned the computer system, its supervisors had the right to read anything created on it. In some areas, laws prohibit outside interception of electronic mail by a third party without proper authorization such as a search warrant. However, these laws to not cover "inside" interception such as occurred at the automotive company. In the past, courts have ruled that interoffice communications may be considered private only if employees have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy when they send the messages. The fact is that no absolute guarantee of privacy exists in any computer system. The only solution may be for users to scramble their own messages with encryption codes; unfortunately, such complex codes are likely to undermine the principal virtue of electronic mail: its convenience.

199806_1-RC_1_6

Given the information in the passage, which one of the following hypothetical events is LEAST likely to occur?

Most office workers assume that the messages they send to each other via electronic mail are as private as a telephone call or a face-to-face meeting. That assumption is wrong. Although it is illegal in many areas for an employer to eavesdrop on private conversations or telephone calls—even if they take place on a company-owned telephone—there are no clear rules governing electronic mail. In fact, the question of how private electronic mail transmissions should be has emerged as one of the more complicated legal issues of the electronic age. People's opinions about the degree of privacy that electronic mail should have vary depending on whose electronic mail system is being used and who is reading the messages. Does a government office, for example, have the right to destroy electronic messages created in the course of running the government, thereby denying public access to such documents? Some hold that government offices should issue guidelines that allow their staff to delete such electronic records, and defend this practice by claiming that the messages thus deleted already exist in paper versions whose destruction is forbidden. Opponents of such practices argue that the paper versions often omit such information as who received the messages and when they received them, information commonly carried on electronic mail systems. Government officials, opponents maintain, are civil servants; the public should thus have the right to review any documents created during the conducting of government business. Questions about electronic mail privacy have also arisen in the private sector. Recently, two employees of an automotive company were discovered to have been communicating disparaging information about their supervisor via electronic mail. The supervisor, who had been monitoring the communication, threatened to fire the employees. When the employees filed a grievance complaining that their privacy had been violated, they were let go. Later, their court case for unlawful termination was dismissed; the company's lawyers successfully argued that because the company owned the computer system, its supervisors had the right to read anything created on it. In some areas, laws prohibit outside interception of electronic mail by a third party without proper authorization such as a search warrant. However, these laws to not cover "inside" interception such as occurred at the automotive company. In the past, courts have ruled that interoffice communications may be considered private only if employees have a "reasonable expectation" of privacy when they send the messages. The fact is that no absolute guarantee of privacy exists in any computer system. The only solution may be for users to scramble their own messages with encryption codes; unfortunately, such complex codes are likely to undermine the principal virtue of electronic mail: its convenience.

199806_1-RC_1_7

The author's primary purpose in writing the passage is to

While a new surge of critical interest in the ancient Greek poems conventionally ascribed to Homer has taken place in the last twenty years or so, it was nonspecialists rather than professional scholars who studied the poetic aspects of the Iliad and the Odyssey between, roughly, 1935 and 1970. During these years, while such nonacademic intellectuals as Simone Weil and Erich Auerbach were trying to define the qualities that made these epic accounts of the Trojan War and its aftermath great poetry, the questions that occupied the specialists were directed elsewhere: "Did the Trojan War really happen?" "Does the bard preserve Indo-European folk memories?" "How did the poems get written down?" Something was driving scholars away from the actual works to peripheral issues. Scholars produced books about archaeology, and gift-exchange in ancient societies, about the development of oral poetry, about virtually anything except the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves as unique reflections or distillations of life itself—as, in short, great poetry. The observations of the English poet Alexander Pope seemed as applicable in 1970 as they had been when he wrote them in 1715: according to Pope, the remarks of critics "are rather Philosophical, Historical,Geographical . . . or rather anything than Critical and Poetical." Ironically, the modern manifestation of this "nonpoetical" emphasis can be traced to the profoundly influential work of Milman Parry, who attempted to demonstrate in detail how the Homeric poems, believed to have been recorded nearly three thousand years ago, were the products of a long and highly developed tradition of oral poetry about the Trojan War. Parry proposed that this tradition built up its diction and its content by a process of constant accumulation and refinement over many generations of storytellers. But after Parry's death in 1935, his legacy was taken up by scholars who, unlike Parry, forsook intensive analysis of the poetry itself and focused instead on only one element of Parry's work: the creative limitations and possibilities of oral composition, concentrating on fixed elements and inflexibilities, focusing on the things that oral poetry allegedly can and cannot do. The dryness of this kind of study drove many of the more inventive scholars away from the poems into the rapidly developing field of Homer's archaeological and historical background. Appropriately, Milman Parry's son Adam was among those scholars responsible for a renewed interest in Homer's poetry as literary art. Building on his father's work, the younger Parry argued that the Homeric poems exist both within and against a tradition. The Iliad and the Odyssey were, Adam Parry thought, the beneficiaries of an inherited store of diction, scenes, and concepts, and at the same time highly individual works that surpassed these conventions. Adam Parry helped prepare the ground for the recent Homeric revival by affirming his father's belief in a strong inherited tradition, but also by emphasizing Homer's unique contributions within that tradition.

199806_1-RC_2_8

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

While a new surge of critical interest in the ancient Greek poems conventionally ascribed to Homer has taken place in the last twenty years or so, it was nonspecialists rather than professional scholars who studied the poetic aspects of the Iliad and the Odyssey between, roughly, 1935 and 1970. During these years, while such nonacademic intellectuals as Simone Weil and Erich Auerbach were trying to define the qualities that made these epic accounts of the Trojan War and its aftermath great poetry, the questions that occupied the specialists were directed elsewhere: "Did the Trojan War really happen?" "Does the bard preserve Indo-European folk memories?" "How did the poems get written down?" Something was driving scholars away from the actual works to peripheral issues. Scholars produced books about archaeology, and gift-exchange in ancient societies, about the development of oral poetry, about virtually anything except the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves as unique reflections or distillations of life itself—as, in short, great poetry. The observations of the English poet Alexander Pope seemed as applicable in 1970 as they had been when he wrote them in 1715: according to Pope, the remarks of critics "are rather Philosophical, Historical,Geographical . . . or rather anything than Critical and Poetical." Ironically, the modern manifestation of this "nonpoetical" emphasis can be traced to the profoundly influential work of Milman Parry, who attempted to demonstrate in detail how the Homeric poems, believed to have been recorded nearly three thousand years ago, were the products of a long and highly developed tradition of oral poetry about the Trojan War. Parry proposed that this tradition built up its diction and its content by a process of constant accumulation and refinement over many generations of storytellers. But after Parry's death in 1935, his legacy was taken up by scholars who, unlike Parry, forsook intensive analysis of the poetry itself and focused instead on only one element of Parry's work: the creative limitations and possibilities of oral composition, concentrating on fixed elements and inflexibilities, focusing on the things that oral poetry allegedly can and cannot do. The dryness of this kind of study drove many of the more inventive scholars away from the poems into the rapidly developing field of Homer's archaeological and historical background. Appropriately, Milman Parry's son Adam was among those scholars responsible for a renewed interest in Homer's poetry as literary art. Building on his father's work, the younger Parry argued that the Homeric poems exist both within and against a tradition. The Iliad and the Odyssey were, Adam Parry thought, the beneficiaries of an inherited store of diction, scenes, and concepts, and at the same time highly individual works that surpassed these conventions. Adam Parry helped prepare the ground for the recent Homeric revival by affirming his father's belief in a strong inherited tradition, but also by emphasizing Homer's unique contributions within that tradition.

199806_1-RC_2_9

According to the passage, the work of Simone Weil and Erich Auerbach on Homer was primarily concerned with which one of the following?

While a new surge of critical interest in the ancient Greek poems conventionally ascribed to Homer has taken place in the last twenty years or so, it was nonspecialists rather than professional scholars who studied the poetic aspects of the Iliad and the Odyssey between, roughly, 1935 and 1970. During these years, while such nonacademic intellectuals as Simone Weil and Erich Auerbach were trying to define the qualities that made these epic accounts of the Trojan War and its aftermath great poetry, the questions that occupied the specialists were directed elsewhere: "Did the Trojan War really happen?" "Does the bard preserve Indo-European folk memories?" "How did the poems get written down?" Something was driving scholars away from the actual works to peripheral issues. Scholars produced books about archaeology, and gift-exchange in ancient societies, about the development of oral poetry, about virtually anything except the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves as unique reflections or distillations of life itself—as, in short, great poetry. The observations of the English poet Alexander Pope seemed as applicable in 1970 as they had been when he wrote them in 1715: according to Pope, the remarks of critics "are rather Philosophical, Historical,Geographical . . . or rather anything than Critical and Poetical." Ironically, the modern manifestation of this "nonpoetical" emphasis can be traced to the profoundly influential work of Milman Parry, who attempted to demonstrate in detail how the Homeric poems, believed to have been recorded nearly three thousand years ago, were the products of a long and highly developed tradition of oral poetry about the Trojan War. Parry proposed that this tradition built up its diction and its content by a process of constant accumulation and refinement over many generations of storytellers. But after Parry's death in 1935, his legacy was taken up by scholars who, unlike Parry, forsook intensive analysis of the poetry itself and focused instead on only one element of Parry's work: the creative limitations and possibilities of oral composition, concentrating on fixed elements and inflexibilities, focusing on the things that oral poetry allegedly can and cannot do. The dryness of this kind of study drove many of the more inventive scholars away from the poems into the rapidly developing field of Homer's archaeological and historical background. Appropriately, Milman Parry's son Adam was among those scholars responsible for a renewed interest in Homer's poetry as literary art. Building on his father's work, the younger Parry argued that the Homeric poems exist both within and against a tradition. The Iliad and the Odyssey were, Adam Parry thought, the beneficiaries of an inherited store of diction, scenes, and concepts, and at the same time highly individual works that surpassed these conventions. Adam Parry helped prepare the ground for the recent Homeric revival by affirming his father's belief in a strong inherited tradition, but also by emphasizing Homer's unique contributions within that tradition.

199806_1-RC_2_10

The passage suggests which one of the following about scholarship on Homer that has appeared since 1970?

While a new surge of critical interest in the ancient Greek poems conventionally ascribed to Homer has taken place in the last twenty years or so, it was nonspecialists rather than professional scholars who studied the poetic aspects of the Iliad and the Odyssey between, roughly, 1935 and 1970. During these years, while such nonacademic intellectuals as Simone Weil and Erich Auerbach were trying to define the qualities that made these epic accounts of the Trojan War and its aftermath great poetry, the questions that occupied the specialists were directed elsewhere: "Did the Trojan War really happen?" "Does the bard preserve Indo-European folk memories?" "How did the poems get written down?" Something was driving scholars away from the actual works to peripheral issues. Scholars produced books about archaeology, and gift-exchange in ancient societies, about the development of oral poetry, about virtually anything except the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves as unique reflections or distillations of life itself—as, in short, great poetry. The observations of the English poet Alexander Pope seemed as applicable in 1970 as they had been when he wrote them in 1715: according to Pope, the remarks of critics "are rather Philosophical, Historical,Geographical . . . or rather anything than Critical and Poetical." Ironically, the modern manifestation of this "nonpoetical" emphasis can be traced to the profoundly influential work of Milman Parry, who attempted to demonstrate in detail how the Homeric poems, believed to have been recorded nearly three thousand years ago, were the products of a long and highly developed tradition of oral poetry about the Trojan War. Parry proposed that this tradition built up its diction and its content by a process of constant accumulation and refinement over many generations of storytellers. But after Parry's death in 1935, his legacy was taken up by scholars who, unlike Parry, forsook intensive analysis of the poetry itself and focused instead on only one element of Parry's work: the creative limitations and possibilities of oral composition, concentrating on fixed elements and inflexibilities, focusing on the things that oral poetry allegedly can and cannot do. The dryness of this kind of study drove many of the more inventive scholars away from the poems into the rapidly developing field of Homer's archaeological and historical background. Appropriately, Milman Parry's son Adam was among those scholars responsible for a renewed interest in Homer's poetry as literary art. Building on his father's work, the younger Parry argued that the Homeric poems exist both within and against a tradition. The Iliad and the Odyssey were, Adam Parry thought, the beneficiaries of an inherited store of diction, scenes, and concepts, and at the same time highly individual works that surpassed these conventions. Adam Parry helped prepare the ground for the recent Homeric revival by affirming his father's belief in a strong inherited tradition, but also by emphasizing Homer's unique contributions within that tradition.

199806_1-RC_2_11

The author of the passage most probably quotes Alexander Pope (lines 24–26) in order to

While a new surge of critical interest in the ancient Greek poems conventionally ascribed to Homer has taken place in the last twenty years or so, it was nonspecialists rather than professional scholars who studied the poetic aspects of the Iliad and the Odyssey between, roughly, 1935 and 1970. During these years, while such nonacademic intellectuals as Simone Weil and Erich Auerbach were trying to define the qualities that made these epic accounts of the Trojan War and its aftermath great poetry, the questions that occupied the specialists were directed elsewhere: "Did the Trojan War really happen?" "Does the bard preserve Indo-European folk memories?" "How did the poems get written down?" Something was driving scholars away from the actual works to peripheral issues. Scholars produced books about archaeology, and gift-exchange in ancient societies, about the development of oral poetry, about virtually anything except the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves as unique reflections or distillations of life itself—as, in short, great poetry. The observations of the English poet Alexander Pope seemed as applicable in 1970 as they had been when he wrote them in 1715: according to Pope, the remarks of critics "are rather Philosophical, Historical,Geographical . . . or rather anything than Critical and Poetical." Ironically, the modern manifestation of this "nonpoetical" emphasis can be traced to the profoundly influential work of Milman Parry, who attempted to demonstrate in detail how the Homeric poems, believed to have been recorded nearly three thousand years ago, were the products of a long and highly developed tradition of oral poetry about the Trojan War. Parry proposed that this tradition built up its diction and its content by a process of constant accumulation and refinement over many generations of storytellers. But after Parry's death in 1935, his legacy was taken up by scholars who, unlike Parry, forsook intensive analysis of the poetry itself and focused instead on only one element of Parry's work: the creative limitations and possibilities of oral composition, concentrating on fixed elements and inflexibilities, focusing on the things that oral poetry allegedly can and cannot do. The dryness of this kind of study drove many of the more inventive scholars away from the poems into the rapidly developing field of Homer's archaeological and historical background. Appropriately, Milman Parry's son Adam was among those scholars responsible for a renewed interest in Homer's poetry as literary art. Building on his father's work, the younger Parry argued that the Homeric poems exist both within and against a tradition. The Iliad and the Odyssey were, Adam Parry thought, the beneficiaries of an inherited store of diction, scenes, and concepts, and at the same time highly individual works that surpassed these conventions. Adam Parry helped prepare the ground for the recent Homeric revival by affirming his father's belief in a strong inherited tradition, but also by emphasizing Homer's unique contributions within that tradition.

199806_1-RC_2_12

According to the passage, which one of the following is true of Milman Parry's immediate successors in the field of Homeric studies?

While a new surge of critical interest in the ancient Greek poems conventionally ascribed to Homer has taken place in the last twenty years or so, it was nonspecialists rather than professional scholars who studied the poetic aspects of the Iliad and the Odyssey between, roughly, 1935 and 1970. During these years, while such nonacademic intellectuals as Simone Weil and Erich Auerbach were trying to define the qualities that made these epic accounts of the Trojan War and its aftermath great poetry, the questions that occupied the specialists were directed elsewhere: "Did the Trojan War really happen?" "Does the bard preserve Indo-European folk memories?" "How did the poems get written down?" Something was driving scholars away from the actual works to peripheral issues. Scholars produced books about archaeology, and gift-exchange in ancient societies, about the development of oral poetry, about virtually anything except the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves as unique reflections or distillations of life itself—as, in short, great poetry. The observations of the English poet Alexander Pope seemed as applicable in 1970 as they had been when he wrote them in 1715: according to Pope, the remarks of critics "are rather Philosophical, Historical,Geographical . . . or rather anything than Critical and Poetical." Ironically, the modern manifestation of this "nonpoetical" emphasis can be traced to the profoundly influential work of Milman Parry, who attempted to demonstrate in detail how the Homeric poems, believed to have been recorded nearly three thousand years ago, were the products of a long and highly developed tradition of oral poetry about the Trojan War. Parry proposed that this tradition built up its diction and its content by a process of constant accumulation and refinement over many generations of storytellers. But after Parry's death in 1935, his legacy was taken up by scholars who, unlike Parry, forsook intensive analysis of the poetry itself and focused instead on only one element of Parry's work: the creative limitations and possibilities of oral composition, concentrating on fixed elements and inflexibilities, focusing on the things that oral poetry allegedly can and cannot do. The dryness of this kind of study drove many of the more inventive scholars away from the poems into the rapidly developing field of Homer's archaeological and historical background. Appropriately, Milman Parry's son Adam was among those scholars responsible for a renewed interest in Homer's poetry as literary art. Building on his father's work, the younger Parry argued that the Homeric poems exist both within and against a tradition. The Iliad and the Odyssey were, Adam Parry thought, the beneficiaries of an inherited store of diction, scenes, and concepts, and at the same time highly individual works that surpassed these conventions. Adam Parry helped prepare the ground for the recent Homeric revival by affirming his father's belief in a strong inherited tradition, but also by emphasizing Homer's unique contributions within that tradition.

199806_1-RC_2_13

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

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_14

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

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_15

The author most likely states that "cultural borrowing is, of course, old news" (lines 47–48)primarily to

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_16

The author of the passage would most likely agree with which one of the following assertions?

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_17

The primary function of the third paragraph is to

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_18

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's attitude toward the theory of Pan-Indianism?

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_19

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

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_20

Which one of the following situations most clearly illustrates the phenomenon of intertribalism, as that phenomenon is described in the passage?

Even in the midst of its resurgence as a vital tradition, many sociologists have viewed the current form of the powwow, a ceremonial gathering of native Americans, as a sign that tribal culture is in decline. Focusing on the dances and rituals that have recently come to be shared by most tribes, they suggest that an intertribal movement is now in ascension and claim the inevitable outcome of this tendency is the eventual dissolution of tribes and the complete assimilation of native Americans into Euroamerican society. Proponents of this "Pan-Indian" theory point to the greater frequency of travel and communication between reservations, the greater urbanization of native Americans, and, most recently, their increasing politicization in response to common grievances as the chief causes of the shift toward intertribalism. Indeed, the rapid diffusion of dance styles, outfits, and songs from one reservation to another offers compelling evidence that intertribalism has been increasing. However, these sociologists have failed to note the concurrent revitalization of many traditions unique to individual tribes. Among the Lakota, for instance, the Sun Dance was revived, after a forty-year hiatus, during the 1950's. Similarly, the Black Legging Society of the Kiowa and the Hethuska Society of the Ponca—both traditional groups within their respective tribes—have gained new popularity. Obviously, a more complex societal shift is taking place than the theory of Pan-Indianism can account for. An examination of the theory's underpinnings may be critical at this point, especially given that native Americans themselves chafe most against the Pan-Indian classification. Like other assimilationist theories with which it is associated, the Pan-Indian view is predicated upon an a priori assumption about the nature of cultural contact: that upon contact minority societies immediately begin to succumb in every respect—biologically, linguistically, and culturally—to the majority society. However, there is no evidence that this is happening to native American groups. Yet the fact remains that intertribal activities are a major facet of native American culture today. Certain dances at powwows, for instance, are announced as intertribal, other as traditional. Likewise, speeches given at the beginnings of powwows are often delivered in English, while the prayer that follows is usually spoken in a native language. Cultural borrowing is, of course, old news. What is important to note is the conscious distinction native Americans make between tribal and intertribal tendencies. Tribalism, although greatly altered by modern history, remains a potent force among native Americans: It forms a basis for tribal identity, and aligns music and dance with other social and cultural activities important to individual tribes. Intertribal activities, on the other hand, reinforce native American identity along a broader front, where this identity is directly threatened by outside influences.

199806_1-RC_3_21

In the passage, the author is primarily concerned with doing which one of the following?

Scientists typically advocate the analytic method of studying complex systems: systems are divided into component parts that are investigated separately. But nineteenth-century critics of this method claimed that when a system's parts are isolated its complexity tends to be lost. To address the perceived weaknesses of the analytic method these critics put forward a concept called organicism, which posited that the whole determines the nature of its parts and that the parts of a whole are interdependent. Organicism depended upon the theory of internal relations, which states that relations between entities are possible only within some whole that embraces them, and that entities are altered by the relationships into which they enter. If an entity stands in a relationship with another entity, it has some property as a consequence. Without this relationship, and hence without the property, the entity would be different— and so would be another entity. Thus, the property is one of the entity's defining characteristics. Each of an entity's relationships likewise determines a defining characteristic of the entity. One problem with the theory of internal relations is that not all properties of an entity are defining characteristics: numerous properties are accompanying characteristics—even if they are always present, their presence does not influence the entity's identity. Thus, even if it is admitted that every relationship into which an entity enters determines some characteristic of the entity, it is not necessarily true that such characteristics will define the entity; it is possible for the entity to enter into a relationship yet remain essentially unchanged. The ultimate difficulty with the theory of internal relations is that it renders the acquisition of knowledge impossible. To truly know an entity, we must know all of its relationships; but because the entity is related to everything in each whole of which it is a part, these wholes must be known completely before the entity can be known. This seems to be a prerequisite impossible to satisfy. Organicists' criticism of the analytic method arose from their failure to fully comprehend the method. In rejecting the analytic method, organicists overlooked the fact that before the proponents of the method analyzed the component parts of a system, they first determined both the laws applicable to the whole system and the initial conditions of the system; proponents of the method thus did not study parts of a system in full isolation from the system as a whole. Since organicists failed to recognize this, they never advanced any argument to show that laws and initial conditions of complex systems cannot be discovered. Hence, organicists offered no valid reason for rejecting the analytic method or for adopting organicism as a replacement for it.

199806_1-RC_4_22

Which one of the following most completely and accurately summarizes the argument of the passage?

Scientists typically advocate the analytic method of studying complex systems: systems are divided into component parts that are investigated separately. But nineteenth-century critics of this method claimed that when a system's parts are isolated its complexity tends to be lost. To address the perceived weaknesses of the analytic method these critics put forward a concept called organicism, which posited that the whole determines the nature of its parts and that the parts of a whole are interdependent. Organicism depended upon the theory of internal relations, which states that relations between entities are possible only within some whole that embraces them, and that entities are altered by the relationships into which they enter. If an entity stands in a relationship with another entity, it has some property as a consequence. Without this relationship, and hence without the property, the entity would be different— and so would be another entity. Thus, the property is one of the entity's defining characteristics. Each of an entity's relationships likewise determines a defining characteristic of the entity. One problem with the theory of internal relations is that not all properties of an entity are defining characteristics: numerous properties are accompanying characteristics—even if they are always present, their presence does not influence the entity's identity. Thus, even if it is admitted that every relationship into which an entity enters determines some characteristic of the entity, it is not necessarily true that such characteristics will define the entity; it is possible for the entity to enter into a relationship yet remain essentially unchanged. The ultimate difficulty with the theory of internal relations is that it renders the acquisition of knowledge impossible. To truly know an entity, we must know all of its relationships; but because the entity is related to everything in each whole of which it is a part, these wholes must be known completely before the entity can be known. This seems to be a prerequisite impossible to satisfy. Organicists' criticism of the analytic method arose from their failure to fully comprehend the method. In rejecting the analytic method, organicists overlooked the fact that before the proponents of the method analyzed the component parts of a system, they first determined both the laws applicable to the whole system and the initial conditions of the system; proponents of the method thus did not study parts of a system in full isolation from the system as a whole. Since organicists failed to recognize this, they never advanced any argument to show that laws and initial conditions of complex systems cannot be discovered. Hence, organicists offered no valid reason for rejecting the analytic method or for adopting organicism as a replacement for it.

199806_1-RC_4_23

According to the passage, organicists' chief objection to the analytic method was that the method

Scientists typically advocate the analytic method of studying complex systems: systems are divided into component parts that are investigated separately. But nineteenth-century critics of this method claimed that when a system's parts are isolated its complexity tends to be lost. To address the perceived weaknesses of the analytic method these critics put forward a concept called organicism, which posited that the whole determines the nature of its parts and that the parts of a whole are interdependent. Organicism depended upon the theory of internal relations, which states that relations between entities are possible only within some whole that embraces them, and that entities are altered by the relationships into which they enter. If an entity stands in a relationship with another entity, it has some property as a consequence. Without this relationship, and hence without the property, the entity would be different— and so would be another entity. Thus, the property is one of the entity's defining characteristics. Each of an entity's relationships likewise determines a defining characteristic of the entity. One problem with the theory of internal relations is that not all properties of an entity are defining characteristics: numerous properties are accompanying characteristics—even if they are always present, their presence does not influence the entity's identity. Thus, even if it is admitted that every relationship into which an entity enters determines some characteristic of the entity, it is not necessarily true that such characteristics will define the entity; it is possible for the entity to enter into a relationship yet remain essentially unchanged. The ultimate difficulty with the theory of internal relations is that it renders the acquisition of knowledge impossible. To truly know an entity, we must know all of its relationships; but because the entity is related to everything in each whole of which it is a part, these wholes must be known completely before the entity can be known. This seems to be a prerequisite impossible to satisfy. Organicists' criticism of the analytic method arose from their failure to fully comprehend the method. In rejecting the analytic method, organicists overlooked the fact that before the proponents of the method analyzed the component parts of a system, they first determined both the laws applicable to the whole system and the initial conditions of the system; proponents of the method thus did not study parts of a system in full isolation from the system as a whole. Since organicists failed to recognize this, they never advanced any argument to show that laws and initial conditions of complex systems cannot be discovered. Hence, organicists offered no valid reason for rejecting the analytic method or for adopting organicism as a replacement for it.

199806_1-RC_4_24

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

Scientists typically advocate the analytic method of studying complex systems: systems are divided into component parts that are investigated separately. But nineteenth-century critics of this method claimed that when a system's parts are isolated its complexity tends to be lost. To address the perceived weaknesses of the analytic method these critics put forward a concept called organicism, which posited that the whole determines the nature of its parts and that the parts of a whole are interdependent. Organicism depended upon the theory of internal relations, which states that relations between entities are possible only within some whole that embraces them, and that entities are altered by the relationships into which they enter. If an entity stands in a relationship with another entity, it has some property as a consequence. Without this relationship, and hence without the property, the entity would be different— and so would be another entity. Thus, the property is one of the entity's defining characteristics. Each of an entity's relationships likewise determines a defining characteristic of the entity. One problem with the theory of internal relations is that not all properties of an entity are defining characteristics: numerous properties are accompanying characteristics—even if they are always present, their presence does not influence the entity's identity. Thus, even if it is admitted that every relationship into which an entity enters determines some characteristic of the entity, it is not necessarily true that such characteristics will define the entity; it is possible for the entity to enter into a relationship yet remain essentially unchanged. The ultimate difficulty with the theory of internal relations is that it renders the acquisition of knowledge impossible. To truly know an entity, we must know all of its relationships; but because the entity is related to everything in each whole of which it is a part, these wholes must be known completely before the entity can be known. This seems to be a prerequisite impossible to satisfy. Organicists' criticism of the analytic method arose from their failure to fully comprehend the method. In rejecting the analytic method, organicists overlooked the fact that before the proponents of the method analyzed the component parts of a system, they first determined both the laws applicable to the whole system and the initial conditions of the system; proponents of the method thus did not study parts of a system in full isolation from the system as a whole. Since organicists failed to recognize this, they never advanced any argument to show that laws and initial conditions of complex systems cannot be discovered. Hence, organicists offered no valid reason for rejecting the analytic method or for adopting organicism as a replacement for it.

199806_1-RC_4_25

The passage most strongly supports the ascription of which one of the following views to scientists who use the analytic method?

Scientists typically advocate the analytic method of studying complex systems: systems are divided into component parts that are investigated separately. But nineteenth-century critics of this method claimed that when a system's parts are isolated its complexity tends to be lost. To address the perceived weaknesses of the analytic method these critics put forward a concept called organicism, which posited that the whole determines the nature of its parts and that the parts of a whole are interdependent. Organicism depended upon the theory of internal relations, which states that relations between entities are possible only within some whole that embraces them, and that entities are altered by the relationships into which they enter. If an entity stands in a relationship with another entity, it has some property as a consequence. Without this relationship, and hence without the property, the entity would be different— and so would be another entity. Thus, the property is one of the entity's defining characteristics. Each of an entity's relationships likewise determines a defining characteristic of the entity. One problem with the theory of internal relations is that not all properties of an entity are defining characteristics: numerous properties are accompanying characteristics—even if they are always present, their presence does not influence the entity's identity. Thus, even if it is admitted that every relationship into which an entity enters determines some characteristic of the entity, it is not necessarily true that such characteristics will define the entity; it is possible for the entity to enter into a relationship yet remain essentially unchanged. The ultimate difficulty with the theory of internal relations is that it renders the acquisition of knowledge impossible. To truly know an entity, we must know all of its relationships; but because the entity is related to everything in each whole of which it is a part, these wholes must be known completely before the entity can be known. This seems to be a prerequisite impossible to satisfy. Organicists' criticism of the analytic method arose from their failure to fully comprehend the method. In rejecting the analytic method, organicists overlooked the fact that before the proponents of the method analyzed the component parts of a system, they first determined both the laws applicable to the whole system and the initial conditions of the system; proponents of the method thus did not study parts of a system in full isolation from the system as a whole. Since organicists failed to recognize this, they never advanced any argument to show that laws and initial conditions of complex systems cannot be discovered. Hence, organicists offered no valid reason for rejecting the analytic method or for adopting organicism as a replacement for it.

199806_1-RC_4_26

Which one of the following is a principle upon which the author bases an argument against the theory of internal relations?

Opponents of compulsory national service claim that such a program is not in keeping with the liberal principles upon which Western democracies are founded. This reasoning is reminiscent of the argument that a tax on one's income is undemocratic because it violates one's right to property. Such conceptions of the liberal state fail to take into account the intricate character of the social agreement that undergirds our liberties. It is only in the context of a community that the notion of individual rights has any application; individual rights are meant to define the limits of people's actions with respect to other people. Implicit in such a context is the concept of shared sacrifice. Were no taxes paid, there could be no law enforcement, and the enforcement of law is of benefit to everyone in society. Thus, each of us must bear a share of the burden to ensure that the community is protected. The responsibility to defend one's nation against outside aggression is surely no less than the responsibility to help pay for law enforcement within the nation. Therefore, the state is certainly within its rights to compel citizens to perform national service when it is needed for the benefit of society. It might be objected that the cases of taxation and national service are not analogous: While taxation must be coerced, the military is quite able to find recruits without resorting to conscription. Furthermore, proponents of national service do not limit its scope to only those duties absolutely necessary to the defense of the nation. Therefore, it may be contended, compulsory national service oversteps the acceptable boundaries of governmental interference in the lives of its citizens. By responding thus, the opponent of national service has already allowed that it is a right of government to demand service when it is needed. But what is the true scope of the term "need" ? If it is granted, say, that present tax policies are legitimate intrusions on the right to property, then it must also be granted that need involves more than just what is necessary for a sound national defense. Even the most conservative of politicians admits that tax money is rightly spent on programs that, while not necessary for the survival of the state, are nevertheless of great benefit to society. Can the opponent of national service truly claim that activities of the military such as quelling civil disorders, rebuilding dams and bridges, or assisting the victims of natural disasters—all extraneous to the defense of society against outside aggression—do not provide a similar benefit to the nation? Upon reflection, opponents of national service must concede that such a broadened conception of what is necessary is in keeping with the ideas of shared sacrifice and community benefit that are essential to the functioning of a liberal democratic state.

199809_4-RC_1_1

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's attitude toward the relationship between citizenship and individual rights in a democracy?

Opponents of compulsory national service claim that such a program is not in keeping with the liberal principles upon which Western democracies are founded. This reasoning is reminiscent of the argument that a tax on one's income is undemocratic because it violates one's right to property. Such conceptions of the liberal state fail to take into account the intricate character of the social agreement that undergirds our liberties. It is only in the context of a community that the notion of individual rights has any application; individual rights are meant to define the limits of people's actions with respect to other people. Implicit in such a context is the concept of shared sacrifice. Were no taxes paid, there could be no law enforcement, and the enforcement of law is of benefit to everyone in society. Thus, each of us must bear a share of the burden to ensure that the community is protected. The responsibility to defend one's nation against outside aggression is surely no less than the responsibility to help pay for law enforcement within the nation. Therefore, the state is certainly within its rights to compel citizens to perform national service when it is needed for the benefit of society. It might be objected that the cases of taxation and national service are not analogous: While taxation must be coerced, the military is quite able to find recruits without resorting to conscription. Furthermore, proponents of national service do not limit its scope to only those duties absolutely necessary to the defense of the nation. Therefore, it may be contended, compulsory national service oversteps the acceptable boundaries of governmental interference in the lives of its citizens. By responding thus, the opponent of national service has already allowed that it is a right of government to demand service when it is needed. But what is the true scope of the term "need" ? If it is granted, say, that present tax policies are legitimate intrusions on the right to property, then it must also be granted that need involves more than just what is necessary for a sound national defense. Even the most conservative of politicians admits that tax money is rightly spent on programs that, while not necessary for the survival of the state, are nevertheless of great benefit to society. Can the opponent of national service truly claim that activities of the military such as quelling civil disorders, rebuilding dams and bridges, or assisting the victims of natural disasters—all extraneous to the defense of society against outside aggression—do not provide a similar benefit to the nation? Upon reflection, opponents of national service must concede that such a broadened conception of what is necessary is in keeping with the ideas of shared sacrifice and community benefit that are essential to the functioning of a liberal democratic state.

199809_4-RC_1_2

The author indicates that all politicians agree about the

Opponents of compulsory national service claim that such a program is not in keeping with the liberal principles upon which Western democracies are founded. This reasoning is reminiscent of the argument that a tax on one's income is undemocratic because it violates one's right to property. Such conceptions of the liberal state fail to take into account the intricate character of the social agreement that undergirds our liberties. It is only in the context of a community that the notion of individual rights has any application; individual rights are meant to define the limits of people's actions with respect to other people. Implicit in such a context is the concept of shared sacrifice. Were no taxes paid, there could be no law enforcement, and the enforcement of law is of benefit to everyone in society. Thus, each of us must bear a share of the burden to ensure that the community is protected. The responsibility to defend one's nation against outside aggression is surely no less than the responsibility to help pay for law enforcement within the nation. Therefore, the state is certainly within its rights to compel citizens to perform national service when it is needed for the benefit of society. It might be objected that the cases of taxation and national service are not analogous: While taxation must be coerced, the military is quite able to find recruits without resorting to conscription. Furthermore, proponents of national service do not limit its scope to only those duties absolutely necessary to the defense of the nation. Therefore, it may be contended, compulsory national service oversteps the acceptable boundaries of governmental interference in the lives of its citizens. By responding thus, the opponent of national service has already allowed that it is a right of government to demand service when it is needed. But what is the true scope of the term "need" ? If it is granted, say, that present tax policies are legitimate intrusions on the right to property, then it must also be granted that need involves more than just what is necessary for a sound national defense. Even the most conservative of politicians admits that tax money is rightly spent on programs that, while not necessary for the survival of the state, are nevertheless of great benefit to society. Can the opponent of national service truly claim that activities of the military such as quelling civil disorders, rebuilding dams and bridges, or assisting the victims of natural disasters—all extraneous to the defense of society against outside aggression—do not provide a similar benefit to the nation? Upon reflection, opponents of national service must concede that such a broadened conception of what is necessary is in keeping with the ideas of shared sacrifice and community benefit that are essential to the functioning of a liberal democratic state.

199809_4-RC_1_3

Which one of the following most accurately characterizes what the author means by the term "social agreement" (line 8)?

Opponents of compulsory national service claim that such a program is not in keeping with the liberal principles upon which Western democracies are founded. This reasoning is reminiscent of the argument that a tax on one's income is undemocratic because it violates one's right to property. Such conceptions of the liberal state fail to take into account the intricate character of the social agreement that undergirds our liberties. It is only in the context of a community that the notion of individual rights has any application; individual rights are meant to define the limits of people's actions with respect to other people. Implicit in such a context is the concept of shared sacrifice. Were no taxes paid, there could be no law enforcement, and the enforcement of law is of benefit to everyone in society. Thus, each of us must bear a share of the burden to ensure that the community is protected. The responsibility to defend one's nation against outside aggression is surely no less than the responsibility to help pay for law enforcement within the nation. Therefore, the state is certainly within its rights to compel citizens to perform national service when it is needed for the benefit of society. It might be objected that the cases of taxation and national service are not analogous: While taxation must be coerced, the military is quite able to find recruits without resorting to conscription. Furthermore, proponents of national service do not limit its scope to only those duties absolutely necessary to the defense of the nation. Therefore, it may be contended, compulsory national service oversteps the acceptable boundaries of governmental interference in the lives of its citizens. By responding thus, the opponent of national service has already allowed that it is a right of government to demand service when it is needed. But what is the true scope of the term "need" ? If it is granted, say, that present tax policies are legitimate intrusions on the right to property, then it must also be granted that need involves more than just what is necessary for a sound national defense. Even the most conservative of politicians admits that tax money is rightly spent on programs that, while not necessary for the survival of the state, are nevertheless of great benefit to society. Can the opponent of national service truly claim that activities of the military such as quelling civil disorders, rebuilding dams and bridges, or assisting the victims of natural disasters—all extraneous to the defense of society against outside aggression—do not provide a similar benefit to the nation? Upon reflection, opponents of national service must concede that such a broadened conception of what is necessary is in keeping with the ideas of shared sacrifice and community benefit that are essential to the functioning of a liberal democratic state.

199809_4-RC_1_4

According to the author, national service and taxation are analogous in the sense that both

Opponents of compulsory national service claim that such a program is not in keeping with the liberal principles upon which Western democracies are founded. This reasoning is reminiscent of the argument that a tax on one's income is undemocratic because it violates one's right to property. Such conceptions of the liberal state fail to take into account the intricate character of the social agreement that undergirds our liberties. It is only in the context of a community that the notion of individual rights has any application; individual rights are meant to define the limits of people's actions with respect to other people. Implicit in such a context is the concept of shared sacrifice. Were no taxes paid, there could be no law enforcement, and the enforcement of law is of benefit to everyone in society. Thus, each of us must bear a share of the burden to ensure that the community is protected. The responsibility to defend one's nation against outside aggression is surely no less than the responsibility to help pay for law enforcement within the nation. Therefore, the state is certainly within its rights to compel citizens to perform national service when it is needed for the benefit of society. It might be objected that the cases of taxation and national service are not analogous: While taxation must be coerced, the military is quite able to find recruits without resorting to conscription. Furthermore, proponents of national service do not limit its scope to only those duties absolutely necessary to the defense of the nation. Therefore, it may be contended, compulsory national service oversteps the acceptable boundaries of governmental interference in the lives of its citizens. By responding thus, the opponent of national service has already allowed that it is a right of government to demand service when it is needed. But what is the true scope of the term "need" ? If it is granted, say, that present tax policies are legitimate intrusions on the right to property, then it must also be granted that need involves more than just what is necessary for a sound national defense. Even the most conservative of politicians admits that tax money is rightly spent on programs that, while not necessary for the survival of the state, are nevertheless of great benefit to society. Can the opponent of national service truly claim that activities of the military such as quelling civil disorders, rebuilding dams and bridges, or assisting the victims of natural disasters—all extraneous to the defense of society against outside aggression—do not provide a similar benefit to the nation? Upon reflection, opponents of national service must concede that such a broadened conception of what is necessary is in keeping with the ideas of shared sacrifice and community benefit that are essential to the functioning of a liberal democratic state.

199809_4-RC_1_5

Based on the information in the passage, which one of the following would most likely be found objectionable by those who oppose compulsory national service?

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_6

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

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_7

The discussion of Locke's books is intended primarily to

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_8

The passage states which one of the following about the 1943 edition of Porter's book on African-American art?

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_9

Given the information in the passage, Porter's identification of the ancestry of Duncanson and Johnston provides conclusive evidence for which one of the following statements?

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_10

Which one of the following can most reasonably be inferred from the passage about the study that Porter left unfinished at his death?

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_11

Which one of the following hypothetical observations is most closely analogous to the discoveries Porter made about African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries?

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_12

The passage most strongly supports which one of the following inferences about Porter's own paintings?

James Porter (1905–1970) was the first scholar to identify the African influence on visual art in the Americas, and much of what is known about the cultural legacy that African-American artists inherited from their African forebears has come to us by way of his work. Porter, a painter and art historian, began by studying African-American crafts of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This research revealed that many of the household items created by African-American men and women—walking sticks, jugs, and textiles— displayed characteristics that linked them iconographically to artifacts of West Africa. Porter then went on to establish clearly the range of the cultural territory inherited by later African-American artists. An example of this aspect of Porter's research occurs in his essay "Robert S. Duncanson, Midwestern Romantic-Realist." The work of Duncanson, a nineteenth-century painter of the Hudson River school, like that of his predecessor in the movement, Joshua Johnston, was commonly thought to have been created by a Euro-American artist. Porter proved definitively that both Duncanson and Johnston were of African ancestry. Porter published this finding and thousands of others in a comprehensive volume tracing the history of African-American art. At the time of its first printing in 1943, only two other books devoted exclusively to the accomplishments of African-American artists existed. Both of these books were written by Alain LeRoy Locke, a professor at the university where Porter also taught. While these earlier studies by Locke are interesting for being the first to survey the field, neither addressed the critical issue of African precursors; Porter's book addressed this issue, painstakingly integrating the history of African-American art into the larger history of art in the Americas without separating it from those qualities that gave it its unique ties to African artisanship. Porter may have been especially attuned to these ties because of his conscious effort to maintain them in his own paintings, many of which combine the style of the genre portrait with evidence of an extensive knowledge of the cultural history of various African peoples. In his later years, Porter wrote additional chapters for later editions of his book, constantly revising and correcting his findings, some of which had been based of necessity on fragmentary evidence. Among his later achievements were his definitive reckoning of the birth year of the painter Patrick Reason, long a point of scholarly uncertainty, and his identification of an unmarked grave in San Francisco as that of the sculptor Edmonia Lewis. At his death, Porter left extensive notes for an unfinished project aimed at exploring the influence of African art on the art of the Western world generally, a body of research whose riches scholars still have not exhausted.

199809_4-RC_2_13

Based on the passage, which one of the following, if true, would have been most relevant to the project Porter was working on at the time of his death?

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_14

The passage is primarily concerned with assessing

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_15

Which one of the following is mentioned in the passage as evidence for the explanation of the dolphin die-off offered in the final paragraph?

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_16

Which one of the following is most analogous to the approach taken by the author of the passage with regard to the research described in the third paragraph?

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_17

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

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_18

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

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_19

The explanation for the dolphin die-off given by the research team most strongly supports which one of the following?

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_20

The author refers to dolphins in the Gulf of Mexico in the last paragraph in order to

Between June 1987 and May 19888, the bodies of at least 740 bottlenose dolphins out of a total coastal population of 3,000 to 5,000 washed ashore on the Atlantic coast of the United States. Since some of the dead animals never washed ashore, the overall disaster was presumably worse; perhaps 50 percent of the population died. A dolphin die-off of this character and magnitude had never before been observed; furthermore, the dolphins exhibited a startling range of symptoms. The research team that examined the die-off noted the presence of both skin lesions and internal lesions in the liver, lung, pancreas, and heart, which suggested a massive opportunistic bacterial infection of already weakened animals. Tissues from the stricken dolphins were analyzed for a variety of toxins. Brevetoxin, a toxin produced by the blooming of the alga Ptychodiscus brevis, was present in eight out of seventeen dolphins tested. Tests for synthetic pollutants revealed that polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) were present in almost all animals tested. The research team concluded that brevetoxin poisoning was the most likely cause of the illnesses that killed the dolphins. Although P. brevis is ordinarily not found along the Atlantic coast, an unusual bloom of this organism—such blooms are called "red tides" because of the reddish color imparted by the blooming algae—did occur in the middle of the affected coastline in October 1987. These researchers believe the toxin accumulated in the tissue of fish and then was ingested by dolphins that preyed on them. The emaciated appearance of many dolphins indicated that they were metabolizing their blubber reserves, thereby reducing their buoyancy and insulation (and adding to overall stress) as well as releasing stores of previously accumulated synthetic pollutants, such as PCBs, which further exacerbated their condition. The combined impact made the dolphins vulnerable to opportunistic bacterial infection, the ultimate cause of death. For several reasons, however, this explanation is not entirely plausible. First, bottlenose dolphins and P. brevis red tides are both common in the Gulf of Mexico, yet no dolphin die-off of a similar magnitude has been noted there. Second, dolphins began dying in June, hundreds of miles north of and some months earlier than the October red tide bloom. Finally, the specific effects of brevetoxin on dolphins are unknown, whereas PCB poisoning is known to impair functioning of the immune system and liver and to cause skin lesions; all of these problems were observed in the diseased animals. An alternative hypothesis, which accounts for these facts, is that a sudden influx of pollutants, perhaps from offshore dumping, triggered a cascade of disorders in animals whose systems were already heavily laden with pollutants. Although brevetoxin may have been a contributing factor, the event that actually precipitated the die-off was a sharp increase in the dolphins' exposure to synthetic pollutants.

199809_4-RC_3_21

Which one of the following factors is explicitly cited as contributing to the dolphins' deaths in both theories discussed in the passage?

In England before 1660, a husband controlled his wife's property. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with the shift from land-based to commercial wealth, marriage began to incorporate certain features of a contract. Historians have traditionally argued that this trend represented a gain for women, one that reflects changing views about democracy and property following the English Restoration in 1660. Susan Staves contests this view; she argues that whatever gains marriage contracts may briefly have represented for women were undermined by judicial decisions about women's contractual rights. Shifting through the tangled details of court cases, Staves demonstrates that, despite surface changes, a rhetoric of equality, and occasional decisions supporting women's financial power, definitions of men's and women's property remained inconsistent— generally to women's detriment. For example, dower lands (property inherited by wives after their husbands' deaths) could not be sold, but "curtesy" property (inherited by husbands from their wives) could be sold. Furthermore, comparatively new concepts that developed in conjunction with the marriage contract, such as jointure, pin money, and separate maintenance, were compromised by peculiar rules. For instance, if a woman spent her pin money (money paid by the husband according to the marriage contract for the wife's personal items) on possessions other than clothes she could not sell them; in effect they belonged to her husband. In addition, a wife could sue for pin money only up to a year in arrears-which rendered a suit impractical. Similarly, separate maintenance allowances (stated sums of money for the wife's support if husband and wife agreed to live apart) were complicated by the fact that if a couple tried to agree in a marriage contract on an amount, they were admitting that a supposedly indissoluble bond could be dissolved, an assumption courts could not recognize. Eighteenth-century historians underplayed these inconsistencies, calling them "little contrarieties" that would soon vanish. Staves shows, however, that as judges gained power over decisions on marriage contracts, they tended to fall back on pre-1660 assumptions about property. Staves' work on women's property has general implications for other studies about women in eighteenth-century England. Staves revises her previous claim that separate maintenance allowances proved the weakening of patriarchy; she now finds that an oversimplification. She also challenges the contention by historians Jeanne and Lawrence Stone that in the late eighteenth century wealthy men married widows less often than before because couples began marrying for love rather than for financial reasons. Staves does not completely undermine their contention, but she does counter their assumption that widows had more money than never-married women. She points out that jointure property (a widow's lifetime use of an amount of money specified in the marriage contract) was often lost on remarriage.

199809_4-RC_4_22

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

In England before 1660, a husband controlled his wife's property. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with the shift from land-based to commercial wealth, marriage began to incorporate certain features of a contract. Historians have traditionally argued that this trend represented a gain for women, one that reflects changing views about democracy and property following the English Restoration in 1660. Susan Staves contests this view; she argues that whatever gains marriage contracts may briefly have represented for women were undermined by judicial decisions about women's contractual rights. Shifting through the tangled details of court cases, Staves demonstrates that, despite surface changes, a rhetoric of equality, and occasional decisions supporting women's financial power, definitions of men's and women's property remained inconsistent— generally to women's detriment. For example, dower lands (property inherited by wives after their husbands' deaths) could not be sold, but "curtesy" property (inherited by husbands from their wives) could be sold. Furthermore, comparatively new concepts that developed in conjunction with the marriage contract, such as jointure, pin money, and separate maintenance, were compromised by peculiar rules. For instance, if a woman spent her pin money (money paid by the husband according to the marriage contract for the wife's personal items) on possessions other than clothes she could not sell them; in effect they belonged to her husband. In addition, a wife could sue for pin money only up to a year in arrears-which rendered a suit impractical. Similarly, separate maintenance allowances (stated sums of money for the wife's support if husband and wife agreed to live apart) were complicated by the fact that if a couple tried to agree in a marriage contract on an amount, they were admitting that a supposedly indissoluble bond could be dissolved, an assumption courts could not recognize. Eighteenth-century historians underplayed these inconsistencies, calling them "little contrarieties" that would soon vanish. Staves shows, however, that as judges gained power over decisions on marriage contracts, they tended to fall back on pre-1660 assumptions about property. Staves' work on women's property has general implications for other studies about women in eighteenth-century England. Staves revises her previous claim that separate maintenance allowances proved the weakening of patriarchy; she now finds that an oversimplification. She also challenges the contention by historians Jeanne and Lawrence Stone that in the late eighteenth century wealthy men married widows less often than before because couples began marrying for love rather than for financial reasons. Staves does not completely undermine their contention, but she does counter their assumption that widows had more money than never-married women. She points out that jointure property (a widow's lifetime use of an amount of money specified in the marriage contract) was often lost on remarriage.

199809_4-RC_4_23

Which one of the following best describes the function of the last paragraph in the context of the passage as a whole?

In England before 1660, a husband controlled his wife's property. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with the shift from land-based to commercial wealth, marriage began to incorporate certain features of a contract. Historians have traditionally argued that this trend represented a gain for women, one that reflects changing views about democracy and property following the English Restoration in 1660. Susan Staves contests this view; she argues that whatever gains marriage contracts may briefly have represented for women were undermined by judicial decisions about women's contractual rights. Shifting through the tangled details of court cases, Staves demonstrates that, despite surface changes, a rhetoric of equality, and occasional decisions supporting women's financial power, definitions of men's and women's property remained inconsistent— generally to women's detriment. For example, dower lands (property inherited by wives after their husbands' deaths) could not be sold, but "curtesy" property (inherited by husbands from their wives) could be sold. Furthermore, comparatively new concepts that developed in conjunction with the marriage contract, such as jointure, pin money, and separate maintenance, were compromised by peculiar rules. For instance, if a woman spent her pin money (money paid by the husband according to the marriage contract for the wife's personal items) on possessions other than clothes she could not sell them; in effect they belonged to her husband. In addition, a wife could sue for pin money only up to a year in arrears-which rendered a suit impractical. Similarly, separate maintenance allowances (stated sums of money for the wife's support if husband and wife agreed to live apart) were complicated by the fact that if a couple tried to agree in a marriage contract on an amount, they were admitting that a supposedly indissoluble bond could be dissolved, an assumption courts could not recognize. Eighteenth-century historians underplayed these inconsistencies, calling them "little contrarieties" that would soon vanish. Staves shows, however, that as judges gained power over decisions on marriage contracts, they tended to fall back on pre-1660 assumptions about property. Staves' work on women's property has general implications for other studies about women in eighteenth-century England. Staves revises her previous claim that separate maintenance allowances proved the weakening of patriarchy; she now finds that an oversimplification. She also challenges the contention by historians Jeanne and Lawrence Stone that in the late eighteenth century wealthy men married widows less often than before because couples began marrying for love rather than for financial reasons. Staves does not completely undermine their contention, but she does counter their assumption that widows had more money than never-married women. She points out that jointure property (a widow's lifetime use of an amount of money specified in the marriage contract) was often lost on remarriage.

199809_4-RC_4_24

The primary purpose of the passage is to

In England before 1660, a husband controlled his wife's property. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with the shift from land-based to commercial wealth, marriage began to incorporate certain features of a contract. Historians have traditionally argued that this trend represented a gain for women, one that reflects changing views about democracy and property following the English Restoration in 1660. Susan Staves contests this view; she argues that whatever gains marriage contracts may briefly have represented for women were undermined by judicial decisions about women's contractual rights. Shifting through the tangled details of court cases, Staves demonstrates that, despite surface changes, a rhetoric of equality, and occasional decisions supporting women's financial power, definitions of men's and women's property remained inconsistent— generally to women's detriment. For example, dower lands (property inherited by wives after their husbands' deaths) could not be sold, but "curtesy" property (inherited by husbands from their wives) could be sold. Furthermore, comparatively new concepts that developed in conjunction with the marriage contract, such as jointure, pin money, and separate maintenance, were compromised by peculiar rules. For instance, if a woman spent her pin money (money paid by the husband according to the marriage contract for the wife's personal items) on possessions other than clothes she could not sell them; in effect they belonged to her husband. In addition, a wife could sue for pin money only up to a year in arrears-which rendered a suit impractical. Similarly, separate maintenance allowances (stated sums of money for the wife's support if husband and wife agreed to live apart) were complicated by the fact that if a couple tried to agree in a marriage contract on an amount, they were admitting that a supposedly indissoluble bond could be dissolved, an assumption courts could not recognize. Eighteenth-century historians underplayed these inconsistencies, calling them "little contrarieties" that would soon vanish. Staves shows, however, that as judges gained power over decisions on marriage contracts, they tended to fall back on pre-1660 assumptions about property. Staves' work on women's property has general implications for other studies about women in eighteenth-century England. Staves revises her previous claim that separate maintenance allowances proved the weakening of patriarchy; she now finds that an oversimplification. She also challenges the contention by historians Jeanne and Lawrence Stone that in the late eighteenth century wealthy men married widows less often than before because couples began marrying for love rather than for financial reasons. Staves does not completely undermine their contention, but she does counter their assumption that widows had more money than never-married women. She points out that jointure property (a widow's lifetime use of an amount of money specified in the marriage contract) was often lost on remarriage.

199809_4-RC_4_25

According to the passage, Staves' research has which one of the following effects on the Stones' contention about marriage in late eighteenth-century England?

In England before 1660, a husband controlled his wife's property. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with the shift from land-based to commercial wealth, marriage began to incorporate certain features of a contract. Historians have traditionally argued that this trend represented a gain for women, one that reflects changing views about democracy and property following the English Restoration in 1660. Susan Staves contests this view; she argues that whatever gains marriage contracts may briefly have represented for women were undermined by judicial decisions about women's contractual rights. Shifting through the tangled details of court cases, Staves demonstrates that, despite surface changes, a rhetoric of equality, and occasional decisions supporting women's financial power, definitions of men's and women's property remained inconsistent— generally to women's detriment. For example, dower lands (property inherited by wives after their husbands' deaths) could not be sold, but "curtesy" property (inherited by husbands from their wives) could be sold. Furthermore, comparatively new concepts that developed in conjunction with the marriage contract, such as jointure, pin money, and separate maintenance, were compromised by peculiar rules. For instance, if a woman spent her pin money (money paid by the husband according to the marriage contract for the wife's personal items) on possessions other than clothes she could not sell them; in effect they belonged to her husband. In addition, a wife could sue for pin money only up to a year in arrears-which rendered a suit impractical. Similarly, separate maintenance allowances (stated sums of money for the wife's support if husband and wife agreed to live apart) were complicated by the fact that if a couple tried to agree in a marriage contract on an amount, they were admitting that a supposedly indissoluble bond could be dissolved, an assumption courts could not recognize. Eighteenth-century historians underplayed these inconsistencies, calling them "little contrarieties" that would soon vanish. Staves shows, however, that as judges gained power over decisions on marriage contracts, they tended to fall back on pre-1660 assumptions about property. Staves' work on women's property has general implications for other studies about women in eighteenth-century England. Staves revises her previous claim that separate maintenance allowances proved the weakening of patriarchy; she now finds that an oversimplification. She also challenges the contention by historians Jeanne and Lawrence Stone that in the late eighteenth century wealthy men married widows less often than before because couples began marrying for love rather than for financial reasons. Staves does not completely undermine their contention, but she does counter their assumption that widows had more money than never-married women. She points out that jointure property (a widow's lifetime use of an amount of money specified in the marriage contract) was often lost on remarriage.

199809_4-RC_4_26

According to the passage, Staves indicates that which one of the following was true of judicial decisions on contractual rights?

In England before 1660, a husband controlled his wife's property. In the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, with the shift from land-based to commercial wealth, marriage began to incorporate certain features of a contract. Historians have traditionally argued that this trend represented a gain for women, one that reflects changing views about democracy and property following the English Restoration in 1660. Susan Staves contests this view; she argues that whatever gains marriage contracts may briefly have represented for women were undermined by judicial decisions about women's contractual rights. Shifting through the tangled details of court cases, Staves demonstrates that, despite surface changes, a rhetoric of equality, and occasional decisions supporting women's financial power, definitions of men's and women's property remained inconsistent— generally to women's detriment. For example, dower lands (property inherited by wives after their husbands' deaths) could not be sold, but "curtesy" property (inherited by husbands from their wives) could be sold. Furthermore, comparatively new concepts that developed in conjunction with the marriage contract, such as jointure, pin money, and separate maintenance, were compromised by peculiar rules. For instance, if a woman spent her pin money (money paid by the husband according to the marriage contract for the wife's personal items) on possessions other than clothes she could not sell them; in effect they belonged to her husband. In addition, a wife could sue for pin money only up to a year in arrears-which rendered a suit impractical. Similarly, separate maintenance allowances (stated sums of money for the wife's support if husband and wife agreed to live apart) were complicated by the fact that if a couple tried to agree in a marriage contract on an amount, they were admitting that a supposedly indissoluble bond could be dissolved, an assumption courts could not recognize. Eighteenth-century historians underplayed these inconsistencies, calling them "little contrarieties" that would soon vanish. Staves shows, however, that as judges gained power over decisions on marriage contracts, they tended to fall back on pre-1660 assumptions about property. Staves' work on women's property has general implications for other studies about women in eighteenth-century England. Staves revises her previous claim that separate maintenance allowances proved the weakening of patriarchy; she now finds that an oversimplification. She also challenges the contention by historians Jeanne and Lawrence Stone that in the late eighteenth century wealthy men married widows less often than before because couples began marrying for love rather than for financial reasons. Staves does not completely undermine their contention, but she does counter their assumption that widows had more money than never-married women. She points out that jointure property (a widow's lifetime use of an amount of money specified in the marriage contract) was often lost on remarriage.

199809_4-RC_4_27

The passage suggests that the historians mentioned in line 5 would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements?

The expansion of mass media has led to an explosion in news coverage of criminal activities to the point where it has become virtually impossible to find citizens who are unaware of the details of crimes committed in their communities. Since it is generally believed that people who know the facts of a case are more likely than those who do not to hold an opinion about the case, and that it is more desirable to empanel jurors who do not need to set aside personal prejudices in order to render a verdict, empaneling impartial juries has proven to be a daunting task in North American courts, particularly in trials involving issues or people of public interest. Judges rely on several techniques to minimize partiality in the courtroom, including moving trials to new venues and giving specific instructions to juries. While many judges are convinced that these techniques work, many critics have concluded that they are ineffective. Change of venue, the critics argue, cannot shield potential jurors from pretrial publicity in widely reported cases. Nor, they claim, can judges' instructions to juries to ignore information learned outside the courtroom be relied upon; one critic characterizes such instruction as requiring of jurors "mental contortions which are beyond anyone's power to execute." The remedy for partiality most favored by judges is voir dire, the questioning of potential jurors to determine whether they can be impartial. But critics charge that this method, too, is unreliable for a number of reasons. Some potential jurors, they argue, do not speak out during voir dire (French for "to speak the truth" ) because they are afraid to admit their prejudices, while others confess untruthfully to having prejudices as a way of avoiding jury duty. Moreover, some potential jurors underestimate their own knowledge, claiming ignorance of a case when they have read about it in newspapers or discussed it with friends. Finally, the critics argue, judges sometimes phrase questions in ways that indicate a desired response, and potential jurors simply answer accordingly. These criticisms have been taken seriously enough by some countries that rely on juries, such as Canada and Great Britain, that they have abandoned voir dire except in unusual circumstances. But merely eliminating existing judicial remedies like voir dire does not really provide a solution to the problem of impartiality. It merely recognizes that the mass media have made total ignorance of criminal cases among jurors a virtual impossibility. But if a jury is to be truly impartial, it must be composed of informed citizens representative of the community's collective experience; today, this experience includes exposure to mass media. Impartiality does not reside in the mind of any one juror, it instead results from a process of deliberation among the many members of a panel of informed, curious, and even opinionated people.

199812_3-RC_1_1

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

The expansion of mass media has led to an explosion in news coverage of criminal activities to the point where it has become virtually impossible to find citizens who are unaware of the details of crimes committed in their communities. Since it is generally believed that people who know the facts of a case are more likely than those who do not to hold an opinion about the case, and that it is more desirable to empanel jurors who do not need to set aside personal prejudices in order to render a verdict, empaneling impartial juries has proven to be a daunting task in North American courts, particularly in trials involving issues or people of public interest. Judges rely on several techniques to minimize partiality in the courtroom, including moving trials to new venues and giving specific instructions to juries. While many judges are convinced that these techniques work, many critics have concluded that they are ineffective. Change of venue, the critics argue, cannot shield potential jurors from pretrial publicity in widely reported cases. Nor, they claim, can judges' instructions to juries to ignore information learned outside the courtroom be relied upon; one critic characterizes such instruction as requiring of jurors "mental contortions which are beyond anyone's power to execute." The remedy for partiality most favored by judges is voir dire, the questioning of potential jurors to determine whether they can be impartial. But critics charge that this method, too, is unreliable for a number of reasons. Some potential jurors, they argue, do not speak out during voir dire (French for "to speak the truth" ) because they are afraid to admit their prejudices, while others confess untruthfully to having prejudices as a way of avoiding jury duty. Moreover, some potential jurors underestimate their own knowledge, claiming ignorance of a case when they have read about it in newspapers or discussed it with friends. Finally, the critics argue, judges sometimes phrase questions in ways that indicate a desired response, and potential jurors simply answer accordingly. These criticisms have been taken seriously enough by some countries that rely on juries, such as Canada and Great Britain, that they have abandoned voir dire except in unusual circumstances. But merely eliminating existing judicial remedies like voir dire does not really provide a solution to the problem of impartiality. It merely recognizes that the mass media have made total ignorance of criminal cases among jurors a virtual impossibility. But if a jury is to be truly impartial, it must be composed of informed citizens representative of the community's collective experience; today, this experience includes exposure to mass media. Impartiality does not reside in the mind of any one juror, it instead results from a process of deliberation among the many members of a panel of informed, curious, and even opinionated people.

199812_3-RC_1_2

One critic characterizes judges' instructions as requiring "mental contortions" (line 25) most likely because of the belief that jurors cannot be expected to

The expansion of mass media has led to an explosion in news coverage of criminal activities to the point where it has become virtually impossible to find citizens who are unaware of the details of crimes committed in their communities. Since it is generally believed that people who know the facts of a case are more likely than those who do not to hold an opinion about the case, and that it is more desirable to empanel jurors who do not need to set aside personal prejudices in order to render a verdict, empaneling impartial juries has proven to be a daunting task in North American courts, particularly in trials involving issues or people of public interest. Judges rely on several techniques to minimize partiality in the courtroom, including moving trials to new venues and giving specific instructions to juries. While many judges are convinced that these techniques work, many critics have concluded that they are ineffective. Change of venue, the critics argue, cannot shield potential jurors from pretrial publicity in widely reported cases. Nor, they claim, can judges' instructions to juries to ignore information learned outside the courtroom be relied upon; one critic characterizes such instruction as requiring of jurors "mental contortions which are beyond anyone's power to execute." The remedy for partiality most favored by judges is voir dire, the questioning of potential jurors to determine whether they can be impartial. But critics charge that this method, too, is unreliable for a number of reasons. Some potential jurors, they argue, do not speak out during voir dire (French for "to speak the truth" ) because they are afraid to admit their prejudices, while others confess untruthfully to having prejudices as a way of avoiding jury duty. Moreover, some potential jurors underestimate their own knowledge, claiming ignorance of a case when they have read about it in newspapers or discussed it with friends. Finally, the critics argue, judges sometimes phrase questions in ways that indicate a desired response, and potential jurors simply answer accordingly. These criticisms have been taken seriously enough by some countries that rely on juries, such as Canada and Great Britain, that they have abandoned voir dire except in unusual circumstances. But merely eliminating existing judicial remedies like voir dire does not really provide a solution to the problem of impartiality. It merely recognizes that the mass media have made total ignorance of criminal cases among jurors a virtual impossibility. But if a jury is to be truly impartial, it must be composed of informed citizens representative of the community's collective experience; today, this experience includes exposure to mass media. Impartiality does not reside in the mind of any one juror, it instead results from a process of deliberation among the many members of a panel of informed, curious, and even opinionated people.

199812_3-RC_1_3

The primary purpose of the third paragraph is to

The expansion of mass media has led to an explosion in news coverage of criminal activities to the point where it has become virtually impossible to find citizens who are unaware of the details of crimes committed in their communities. Since it is generally believed that people who know the facts of a case are more likely than those who do not to hold an opinion about the case, and that it is more desirable to empanel jurors who do not need to set aside personal prejudices in order to render a verdict, empaneling impartial juries has proven to be a daunting task in North American courts, particularly in trials involving issues or people of public interest. Judges rely on several techniques to minimize partiality in the courtroom, including moving trials to new venues and giving specific instructions to juries. While many judges are convinced that these techniques work, many critics have concluded that they are ineffective. Change of venue, the critics argue, cannot shield potential jurors from pretrial publicity in widely reported cases. Nor, they claim, can judges' instructions to juries to ignore information learned outside the courtroom be relied upon; one critic characterizes such instruction as requiring of jurors "mental contortions which are beyond anyone's power to execute." The remedy for partiality most favored by judges is voir dire, the questioning of potential jurors to determine whether they can be impartial. But critics charge that this method, too, is unreliable for a number of reasons. Some potential jurors, they argue, do not speak out during voir dire (French for "to speak the truth" ) because they are afraid to admit their prejudices, while others confess untruthfully to having prejudices as a way of avoiding jury duty. Moreover, some potential jurors underestimate their own knowledge, claiming ignorance of a case when they have read about it in newspapers or discussed it with friends. Finally, the critics argue, judges sometimes phrase questions in ways that indicate a desired response, and potential jurors simply answer accordingly. These criticisms have been taken seriously enough by some countries that rely on juries, such as Canada and Great Britain, that they have abandoned voir dire except in unusual circumstances. But merely eliminating existing judicial remedies like voir dire does not really provide a solution to the problem of impartiality. It merely recognizes that the mass media have made total ignorance of criminal cases among jurors a virtual impossibility. But if a jury is to be truly impartial, it must be composed of informed citizens representative of the community's collective experience; today, this experience includes exposure to mass media. Impartiality does not reside in the mind of any one juror, it instead results from a process of deliberation among the many members of a panel of informed, curious, and even opinionated people.

199812_3-RC_1_4

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

The expansion of mass media has led to an explosion in news coverage of criminal activities to the point where it has become virtually impossible to find citizens who are unaware of the details of crimes committed in their communities. Since it is generally believed that people who know the facts of a case are more likely than those who do not to hold an opinion about the case, and that it is more desirable to empanel jurors who do not need to set aside personal prejudices in order to render a verdict, empaneling impartial juries has proven to be a daunting task in North American courts, particularly in trials involving issues or people of public interest. Judges rely on several techniques to minimize partiality in the courtroom, including moving trials to new venues and giving specific instructions to juries. While many judges are convinced that these techniques work, many critics have concluded that they are ineffective. Change of venue, the critics argue, cannot shield potential jurors from pretrial publicity in widely reported cases. Nor, they claim, can judges' instructions to juries to ignore information learned outside the courtroom be relied upon; one critic characterizes such instruction as requiring of jurors "mental contortions which are beyond anyone's power to execute." The remedy for partiality most favored by judges is voir dire, the questioning of potential jurors to determine whether they can be impartial. But critics charge that this method, too, is unreliable for a number of reasons. Some potential jurors, they argue, do not speak out during voir dire (French for "to speak the truth" ) because they are afraid to admit their prejudices, while others confess untruthfully to having prejudices as a way of avoiding jury duty. Moreover, some potential jurors underestimate their own knowledge, claiming ignorance of a case when they have read about it in newspapers or discussed it with friends. Finally, the critics argue, judges sometimes phrase questions in ways that indicate a desired response, and potential jurors simply answer accordingly. These criticisms have been taken seriously enough by some countries that rely on juries, such as Canada and Great Britain, that they have abandoned voir dire except in unusual circumstances. But merely eliminating existing judicial remedies like voir dire does not really provide a solution to the problem of impartiality. It merely recognizes that the mass media have made total ignorance of criminal cases among jurors a virtual impossibility. But if a jury is to be truly impartial, it must be composed of informed citizens representative of the community's collective experience; today, this experience includes exposure to mass media. Impartiality does not reside in the mind of any one juror, it instead results from a process of deliberation among the many members of a panel of informed, curious, and even opinionated people.

199812_3-RC_1_5

The passage suggests that a potential benefit of mass-media coverage on court cases is that it will

The expansion of mass media has led to an explosion in news coverage of criminal activities to the point where it has become virtually impossible to find citizens who are unaware of the details of crimes committed in their communities. Since it is generally believed that people who know the facts of a case are more likely than those who do not to hold an opinion about the case, and that it is more desirable to empanel jurors who do not need to set aside personal prejudices in order to render a verdict, empaneling impartial juries has proven to be a daunting task in North American courts, particularly in trials involving issues or people of public interest. Judges rely on several techniques to minimize partiality in the courtroom, including moving trials to new venues and giving specific instructions to juries. While many judges are convinced that these techniques work, many critics have concluded that they are ineffective. Change of venue, the critics argue, cannot shield potential jurors from pretrial publicity in widely reported cases. Nor, they claim, can judges' instructions to juries to ignore information learned outside the courtroom be relied upon; one critic characterizes such instruction as requiring of jurors "mental contortions which are beyond anyone's power to execute." The remedy for partiality most favored by judges is voir dire, the questioning of potential jurors to determine whether they can be impartial. But critics charge that this method, too, is unreliable for a number of reasons. Some potential jurors, they argue, do not speak out during voir dire (French for "to speak the truth" ) because they are afraid to admit their prejudices, while others confess untruthfully to having prejudices as a way of avoiding jury duty. Moreover, some potential jurors underestimate their own knowledge, claiming ignorance of a case when they have read about it in newspapers or discussed it with friends. Finally, the critics argue, judges sometimes phrase questions in ways that indicate a desired response, and potential jurors simply answer accordingly. These criticisms have been taken seriously enough by some countries that rely on juries, such as Canada and Great Britain, that they have abandoned voir dire except in unusual circumstances. But merely eliminating existing judicial remedies like voir dire does not really provide a solution to the problem of impartiality. It merely recognizes that the mass media have made total ignorance of criminal cases among jurors a virtual impossibility. But if a jury is to be truly impartial, it must be composed of informed citizens representative of the community's collective experience; today, this experience includes exposure to mass media. Impartiality does not reside in the mind of any one juror, it instead results from a process of deliberation among the many members of a panel of informed, curious, and even opinionated people.

199812_3-RC_1_6

Which one of the following principles is most in keeping with the passage's argument?

The expansion of mass media has led to an explosion in news coverage of criminal activities to the point where it has become virtually impossible to find citizens who are unaware of the details of crimes committed in their communities. Since it is generally believed that people who know the facts of a case are more likely than those who do not to hold an opinion about the case, and that it is more desirable to empanel jurors who do not need to set aside personal prejudices in order to render a verdict, empaneling impartial juries has proven to be a daunting task in North American courts, particularly in trials involving issues or people of public interest. Judges rely on several techniques to minimize partiality in the courtroom, including moving trials to new venues and giving specific instructions to juries. While many judges are convinced that these techniques work, many critics have concluded that they are ineffective. Change of venue, the critics argue, cannot shield potential jurors from pretrial publicity in widely reported cases. Nor, they claim, can judges' instructions to juries to ignore information learned outside the courtroom be relied upon; one critic characterizes such instruction as requiring of jurors "mental contortions which are beyond anyone's power to execute." The remedy for partiality most favored by judges is voir dire, the questioning of potential jurors to determine whether they can be impartial. But critics charge that this method, too, is unreliable for a number of reasons. Some potential jurors, they argue, do not speak out during voir dire (French for "to speak the truth" ) because they are afraid to admit their prejudices, while others confess untruthfully to having prejudices as a way of avoiding jury duty. Moreover, some potential jurors underestimate their own knowledge, claiming ignorance of a case when they have read about it in newspapers or discussed it with friends. Finally, the critics argue, judges sometimes phrase questions in ways that indicate a desired response, and potential jurors simply answer accordingly. These criticisms have been taken seriously enough by some countries that rely on juries, such as Canada and Great Britain, that they have abandoned voir dire except in unusual circumstances. But merely eliminating existing judicial remedies like voir dire does not really provide a solution to the problem of impartiality. It merely recognizes that the mass media have made total ignorance of criminal cases among jurors a virtual impossibility. But if a jury is to be truly impartial, it must be composed of informed citizens representative of the community's collective experience; today, this experience includes exposure to mass media. Impartiality does not reside in the mind of any one juror, it instead results from a process of deliberation among the many members of a panel of informed, curious, and even opinionated people.

199812_3-RC_1_7

Of the following, the author's primary purpose in writing the passage most likely is to

Personal names are generally regarded by European thinkers in two major ways, both of which deny that names have any significant semantic content. In philosophy and linguistics, John Stuart Mill's formulation that "proper names are meaningless marks set upon…persons to distinguish them from one another" retains currency; in anthropology, Claude Lévi-Strauss's characterization of names as being primarily instruments of social classification has been very influential. Consequently, interpretation of personal names in societies were names have other functions and meanings has been neglected. Among the Hopi of the southwestern United States, names often refer to historical or ritual events in order both to place individuals within society and to confer an identity upon them. Furthermore, the images used to evoke these events suggest that Hopi names can be seen as a type of poetic composition. Throughout life, Hopis receive several names in a sequence of ritual initiations. Birth, entry into one of the ritual societies during childhood, and puberty are among the name-giving occasions. Names are conferred by an adult member of a clan other than the child's clan, and names refer to that name giver's clan, sometimes combining characteristics of the clan's totem animal with the child's characteristics. Thus, a name might translate to something as simple as "little rabbit," which reflects both the child's size and the representative animal. More often, though, the name giver has in mind a specific event that is not apparent in a name's literal translation. One Lizard clan member from the village of Oraibi is named Lomayayva, "beautifully ascended." This translation, however, tells nothing about either the event referred to—who or what ascended—or the name giver's clan. The name giver in this case is from Badger clan. Badger clan is responsible for an annual ceremony featuring a procession in which masked representations of spirits climb the mesa on which Oraibi sits. Combining the name giver's clan association with the receiver's home village, "beautifully ascended" refers to the splendid colors and movements of the procession up the mesa. The condensed image this name evokes—a typical feature of Hopi personal names—displays the same quality of Western Apache place names that led one commentator to call them "tiny imagist poems." Hopi personal names do several things simultaneously. They indicate social relationships—but only indirectly—and they individuate persons. Equally important, though, is their poetic quality; in a sense they can be understood as oral texts that produce aesthetic delight. This view of Hopi names is thus opposed not only to Mill's claim that personal names are without inherent meaning but also to Lévi-Strauss's purely functional characterization. Interpreters must understand Hopi clan structures and linguistic practices in order to discern the beauty and significance of Hopi names.

199812_3-RC_2_8

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

Personal names are generally regarded by European thinkers in two major ways, both of which deny that names have any significant semantic content. In philosophy and linguistics, John Stuart Mill's formulation that "proper names are meaningless marks set upon…persons to distinguish them from one another" retains currency; in anthropology, Claude Lévi-Strauss's characterization of names as being primarily instruments of social classification has been very influential. Consequently, interpretation of personal names in societies were names have other functions and meanings has been neglected. Among the Hopi of the southwestern United States, names often refer to historical or ritual events in order both to place individuals within society and to confer an identity upon them. Furthermore, the images used to evoke these events suggest that Hopi names can be seen as a type of poetic composition. Throughout life, Hopis receive several names in a sequence of ritual initiations. Birth, entry into one of the ritual societies during childhood, and puberty are among the name-giving occasions. Names are conferred by an adult member of a clan other than the child's clan, and names refer to that name giver's clan, sometimes combining characteristics of the clan's totem animal with the child's characteristics. Thus, a name might translate to something as simple as "little rabbit," which reflects both the child's size and the representative animal. More often, though, the name giver has in mind a specific event that is not apparent in a name's literal translation. One Lizard clan member from the village of Oraibi is named Lomayayva, "beautifully ascended." This translation, however, tells nothing about either the event referred to—who or what ascended—or the name giver's clan. The name giver in this case is from Badger clan. Badger clan is responsible for an annual ceremony featuring a procession in which masked representations of spirits climb the mesa on which Oraibi sits. Combining the name giver's clan association with the receiver's home village, "beautifully ascended" refers to the splendid colors and movements of the procession up the mesa. The condensed image this name evokes—a typical feature of Hopi personal names—displays the same quality of Western Apache place names that led one commentator to call them "tiny imagist poems." Hopi personal names do several things simultaneously. They indicate social relationships—but only indirectly—and they individuate persons. Equally important, though, is their poetic quality; in a sense they can be understood as oral texts that produce aesthetic delight. This view of Hopi names is thus opposed not only to Mill's claim that personal names are without inherent meaning but also to Lévi-Strauss's purely functional characterization. Interpreters must understand Hopi clan structures and linguistic practices in order to discern the beauty and significance of Hopi names.

199812_3-RC_2_9

The author most likely refers to Western Apache place names (line 46)in order to

Personal names are generally regarded by European thinkers in two major ways, both of which deny that names have any significant semantic content. In philosophy and linguistics, John Stuart Mill's formulation that "proper names are meaningless marks set upon…persons to distinguish them from one another" retains currency; in anthropology, Claude Lévi-Strauss's characterization of names as being primarily instruments of social classification has been very influential. Consequently, interpretation of personal names in societies were names have other functions and meanings has been neglected. Among the Hopi of the southwestern United States, names often refer to historical or ritual events in order both to place individuals within society and to confer an identity upon them. Furthermore, the images used to evoke these events suggest that Hopi names can be seen as a type of poetic composition. Throughout life, Hopis receive several names in a sequence of ritual initiations. Birth, entry into one of the ritual societies during childhood, and puberty are among the name-giving occasions. Names are conferred by an adult member of a clan other than the child's clan, and names refer to that name giver's clan, sometimes combining characteristics of the clan's totem animal with the child's characteristics. Thus, a name might translate to something as simple as "little rabbit," which reflects both the child's size and the representative animal. More often, though, the name giver has in mind a specific event that is not apparent in a name's literal translation. One Lizard clan member from the village of Oraibi is named Lomayayva, "beautifully ascended." This translation, however, tells nothing about either the event referred to—who or what ascended—or the name giver's clan. The name giver in this case is from Badger clan. Badger clan is responsible for an annual ceremony featuring a procession in which masked representations of spirits climb the mesa on which Oraibi sits. Combining the name giver's clan association with the receiver's home village, "beautifully ascended" refers to the splendid colors and movements of the procession up the mesa. The condensed image this name evokes—a typical feature of Hopi personal names—displays the same quality of Western Apache place names that led one commentator to call them "tiny imagist poems." Hopi personal names do several things simultaneously. They indicate social relationships—but only indirectly—and they individuate persons. Equally important, though, is their poetic quality; in a sense they can be understood as oral texts that produce aesthetic delight. This view of Hopi names is thus opposed not only to Mill's claim that personal names are without inherent meaning but also to Lévi-Strauss's purely functional characterization. Interpreters must understand Hopi clan structures and linguistic practices in order to discern the beauty and significance of Hopi names.

199812_3-RC_2_10

Which one of the following statements describes an example of the function accorded to personal names under Lévi-Strauss's view?

Personal names are generally regarded by European thinkers in two major ways, both of which deny that names have any significant semantic content. In philosophy and linguistics, John Stuart Mill's formulation that "proper names are meaningless marks set upon…persons to distinguish them from one another" retains currency; in anthropology, Claude Lévi-Strauss's characterization of names as being primarily instruments of social classification has been very influential. Consequently, interpretation of personal names in societies were names have other functions and meanings has been neglected. Among the Hopi of the southwestern United States, names often refer to historical or ritual events in order both to place individuals within society and to confer an identity upon them. Furthermore, the images used to evoke these events suggest that Hopi names can be seen as a type of poetic composition. Throughout life, Hopis receive several names in a sequence of ritual initiations. Birth, entry into one of the ritual societies during childhood, and puberty are among the name-giving occasions. Names are conferred by an adult member of a clan other than the child's clan, and names refer to that name giver's clan, sometimes combining characteristics of the clan's totem animal with the child's characteristics. Thus, a name might translate to something as simple as "little rabbit," which reflects both the child's size and the representative animal. More often, though, the name giver has in mind a specific event that is not apparent in a name's literal translation. One Lizard clan member from the village of Oraibi is named Lomayayva, "beautifully ascended." This translation, however, tells nothing about either the event referred to—who or what ascended—or the name giver's clan. The name giver in this case is from Badger clan. Badger clan is responsible for an annual ceremony featuring a procession in which masked representations of spirits climb the mesa on which Oraibi sits. Combining the name giver's clan association with the receiver's home village, "beautifully ascended" refers to the splendid colors and movements of the procession up the mesa. The condensed image this name evokes—a typical feature of Hopi personal names—displays the same quality of Western Apache place names that led one commentator to call them "tiny imagist poems." Hopi personal names do several things simultaneously. They indicate social relationships—but only indirectly—and they individuate persons. Equally important, though, is their poetic quality; in a sense they can be understood as oral texts that produce aesthetic delight. This view of Hopi names is thus opposed not only to Mill's claim that personal names are without inherent meaning but also to Lévi-Strauss's purely functional characterization. Interpreters must understand Hopi clan structures and linguistic practices in order to discern the beauty and significance of Hopi names.

199812_3-RC_2_11

The primary function of the second paragraph is to

Personal names are generally regarded by European thinkers in two major ways, both of which deny that names have any significant semantic content. In philosophy and linguistics, John Stuart Mill's formulation that "proper names are meaningless marks set upon…persons to distinguish them from one another" retains currency; in anthropology, Claude Lévi-Strauss's characterization of names as being primarily instruments of social classification has been very influential. Consequently, interpretation of personal names in societies were names have other functions and meanings has been neglected. Among the Hopi of the southwestern United States, names often refer to historical or ritual events in order both to place individuals within society and to confer an identity upon them. Furthermore, the images used to evoke these events suggest that Hopi names can be seen as a type of poetic composition. Throughout life, Hopis receive several names in a sequence of ritual initiations. Birth, entry into one of the ritual societies during childhood, and puberty are among the name-giving occasions. Names are conferred by an adult member of a clan other than the child's clan, and names refer to that name giver's clan, sometimes combining characteristics of the clan's totem animal with the child's characteristics. Thus, a name might translate to something as simple as "little rabbit," which reflects both the child's size and the representative animal. More often, though, the name giver has in mind a specific event that is not apparent in a name's literal translation. One Lizard clan member from the village of Oraibi is named Lomayayva, "beautifully ascended." This translation, however, tells nothing about either the event referred to—who or what ascended—or the name giver's clan. The name giver in this case is from Badger clan. Badger clan is responsible for an annual ceremony featuring a procession in which masked representations of spirits climb the mesa on which Oraibi sits. Combining the name giver's clan association with the receiver's home village, "beautifully ascended" refers to the splendid colors and movements of the procession up the mesa. The condensed image this name evokes—a typical feature of Hopi personal names—displays the same quality of Western Apache place names that led one commentator to call them "tiny imagist poems." Hopi personal names do several things simultaneously. They indicate social relationships—but only indirectly—and they individuate persons. Equally important, though, is their poetic quality; in a sense they can be understood as oral texts that produce aesthetic delight. This view of Hopi names is thus opposed not only to Mill's claim that personal names are without inherent meaning but also to Lévi-Strauss's purely functional characterization. Interpreters must understand Hopi clan structures and linguistic practices in order to discern the beauty and significance of Hopi names.

199812_3-RC_2_12

Based on the passage, with which one of the following statements about Mill's view would the author of the passage be most likely to agree?

Personal names are generally regarded by European thinkers in two major ways, both of which deny that names have any significant semantic content. In philosophy and linguistics, John Stuart Mill's formulation that "proper names are meaningless marks set upon…persons to distinguish them from one another" retains currency; in anthropology, Claude Lévi-Strauss's characterization of names as being primarily instruments of social classification has been very influential. Consequently, interpretation of personal names in societies were names have other functions and meanings has been neglected. Among the Hopi of the southwestern United States, names often refer to historical or ritual events in order both to place individuals within society and to confer an identity upon them. Furthermore, the images used to evoke these events suggest that Hopi names can be seen as a type of poetic composition. Throughout life, Hopis receive several names in a sequence of ritual initiations. Birth, entry into one of the ritual societies during childhood, and puberty are among the name-giving occasions. Names are conferred by an adult member of a clan other than the child's clan, and names refer to that name giver's clan, sometimes combining characteristics of the clan's totem animal with the child's characteristics. Thus, a name might translate to something as simple as "little rabbit," which reflects both the child's size and the representative animal. More often, though, the name giver has in mind a specific event that is not apparent in a name's literal translation. One Lizard clan member from the village of Oraibi is named Lomayayva, "beautifully ascended." This translation, however, tells nothing about either the event referred to—who or what ascended—or the name giver's clan. The name giver in this case is from Badger clan. Badger clan is responsible for an annual ceremony featuring a procession in which masked representations of spirits climb the mesa on which Oraibi sits. Combining the name giver's clan association with the receiver's home village, "beautifully ascended" refers to the splendid colors and movements of the procession up the mesa. The condensed image this name evokes—a typical feature of Hopi personal names—displays the same quality of Western Apache place names that led one commentator to call them "tiny imagist poems." Hopi personal names do several things simultaneously. They indicate social relationships—but only indirectly—and they individuate persons. Equally important, though, is their poetic quality; in a sense they can be understood as oral texts that produce aesthetic delight. This view of Hopi names is thus opposed not only to Mill's claim that personal names are without inherent meaning but also to Lévi-Strauss's purely functional characterization. Interpreters must understand Hopi clan structures and linguistic practices in order to discern the beauty and significance of Hopi names.

199812_3-RC_2_13

It can be inferred from the passage that each of the following features of Hopi personal names contributes to their poetic quality EXCEPT:

Personal names are generally regarded by European thinkers in two major ways, both of which deny that names have any significant semantic content. In philosophy and linguistics, John Stuart Mill's formulation that "proper names are meaningless marks set upon…persons to distinguish them from one another" retains currency; in anthropology, Claude Lévi-Strauss's characterization of names as being primarily instruments of social classification has been very influential. Consequently, interpretation of personal names in societies were names have other functions and meanings has been neglected. Among the Hopi of the southwestern United States, names often refer to historical or ritual events in order both to place individuals within society and to confer an identity upon them. Furthermore, the images used to evoke these events suggest that Hopi names can be seen as a type of poetic composition. Throughout life, Hopis receive several names in a sequence of ritual initiations. Birth, entry into one of the ritual societies during childhood, and puberty are among the name-giving occasions. Names are conferred by an adult member of a clan other than the child's clan, and names refer to that name giver's clan, sometimes combining characteristics of the clan's totem animal with the child's characteristics. Thus, a name might translate to something as simple as "little rabbit," which reflects both the child's size and the representative animal. More often, though, the name giver has in mind a specific event that is not apparent in a name's literal translation. One Lizard clan member from the village of Oraibi is named Lomayayva, "beautifully ascended." This translation, however, tells nothing about either the event referred to—who or what ascended—or the name giver's clan. The name giver in this case is from Badger clan. Badger clan is responsible for an annual ceremony featuring a procession in which masked representations of spirits climb the mesa on which Oraibi sits. Combining the name giver's clan association with the receiver's home village, "beautifully ascended" refers to the splendid colors and movements of the procession up the mesa. The condensed image this name evokes—a typical feature of Hopi personal names—displays the same quality of Western Apache place names that led one commentator to call them "tiny imagist poems." Hopi personal names do several things simultaneously. They indicate social relationships—but only indirectly—and they individuate persons. Equally important, though, is their poetic quality; in a sense they can be understood as oral texts that produce aesthetic delight. This view of Hopi names is thus opposed not only to Mill's claim that personal names are without inherent meaning but also to Lévi-Strauss's purely functional characterization. Interpreters must understand Hopi clan structures and linguistic practices in order to discern the beauty and significance of Hopi names.

199812_3-RC_2_14

The author's primary purpose in writing the passage it to

Homing pigeons can be taken from their lofts and transported hundreds of kilometers in covered cages to unfamiliar sites and yet, when released, be able to choose fairly accurate homeward bearings within a minute and fly home. Aside from reading the minds of the experimenters (a possibility that has not escaped investigation), there are two basic explanations for the remarkable ability of pigeons to "home" : the birds might keep track of their outward displacement (the system of many short-range species such as honeybees); or they might have some sense, known as a "map sense," that would permit them to construct an internal image of their environment and then "place" themselves with respect to home on some internalized coordinate system. The first alternative seems unlikely. One possible model for such an inertial system might involve an internal magnetic compass to measure the directional leg of each journey. Birds transported to the release site wearing magnets or otherwise subjected to an artificial magnetic field, however, are only occasionally affected. Alternately, if pigeons measure their displacement by consciously keeping track of the direction and degree of acceleration and deceleration of the various turns, and timing the individual legs of the journey, simply transporting them in the dark, with constant rotations, or under complete anesthesia ought to impair or eliminate their ability to orient. These treatments, however, have no effect. Unfortunately, no one has yet performed the crucial experiment of transporting pigeons in total darkness, anesthetized, rotating, and with the magnetic field reversed all at the same time. The other alternative, that pigeons have a "map sense," seems more promising, yet the nature of this sense remains mysterious. Papi has posited that the map sense is olfactory: that birds come to associate odors borne on the wind with the direction in which the wind is blowing, and so slowly build up an olfactory map of their surroundings. When transported to the release site, then, they only have to sniff the air en route and/or at the site to know the direction of home. Papi conducted a series of experiments showing that pigeons whose nostrils have been plugged are poorly oriented at release and home slowly. One problem with the hypothesis is that Schmidt-Koenig and Phillips failed to detect any ability in pigeons to distinguish natural air (presumably laden with olfactory map information) from pure, filtered air. Papi's experimental results, moreover, admit of simpler, nonolfactory explanations. It seems likely that the behavior of nostril-plugged birds results from the distracting and traumatic nature of the experiment. When nasal tubes are used to bypass the olfactory chamber but allow for comfortable breathing, no disorientation is evident. Likewise, when the olfactory epithelium is sprayed with anesthetic to block smell-detection but not breathing, orientation is normal.

199812_3-RC_3_15

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

Homing pigeons can be taken from their lofts and transported hundreds of kilometers in covered cages to unfamiliar sites and yet, when released, be able to choose fairly accurate homeward bearings within a minute and fly home. Aside from reading the minds of the experimenters (a possibility that has not escaped investigation), there are two basic explanations for the remarkable ability of pigeons to "home" : the birds might keep track of their outward displacement (the system of many short-range species such as honeybees); or they might have some sense, known as a "map sense," that would permit them to construct an internal image of their environment and then "place" themselves with respect to home on some internalized coordinate system. The first alternative seems unlikely. One possible model for such an inertial system might involve an internal magnetic compass to measure the directional leg of each journey. Birds transported to the release site wearing magnets or otherwise subjected to an artificial magnetic field, however, are only occasionally affected. Alternately, if pigeons measure their displacement by consciously keeping track of the direction and degree of acceleration and deceleration of the various turns, and timing the individual legs of the journey, simply transporting them in the dark, with constant rotations, or under complete anesthesia ought to impair or eliminate their ability to orient. These treatments, however, have no effect. Unfortunately, no one has yet performed the crucial experiment of transporting pigeons in total darkness, anesthetized, rotating, and with the magnetic field reversed all at the same time. The other alternative, that pigeons have a "map sense," seems more promising, yet the nature of this sense remains mysterious. Papi has posited that the map sense is olfactory: that birds come to associate odors borne on the wind with the direction in which the wind is blowing, and so slowly build up an olfactory map of their surroundings. When transported to the release site, then, they only have to sniff the air en route and/or at the site to know the direction of home. Papi conducted a series of experiments showing that pigeons whose nostrils have been plugged are poorly oriented at release and home slowly. One problem with the hypothesis is that Schmidt-Koenig and Phillips failed to detect any ability in pigeons to distinguish natural air (presumably laden with olfactory map information) from pure, filtered air. Papi's experimental results, moreover, admit of simpler, nonolfactory explanations. It seems likely that the behavior of nostril-plugged birds results from the distracting and traumatic nature of the experiment. When nasal tubes are used to bypass the olfactory chamber but allow for comfortable breathing, no disorientation is evident. Likewise, when the olfactory epithelium is sprayed with anesthetic to block smell-detection but not breathing, orientation is normal.

199812_3-RC_3_16

According to the passage, which one of the following is ordinarily true regarding how homing pigeons "home" ?

Homing pigeons can be taken from their lofts and transported hundreds of kilometers in covered cages to unfamiliar sites and yet, when released, be able to choose fairly accurate homeward bearings within a minute and fly home. Aside from reading the minds of the experimenters (a possibility that has not escaped investigation), there are two basic explanations for the remarkable ability of pigeons to "home" : the birds might keep track of their outward displacement (the system of many short-range species such as honeybees); or they might have some sense, known as a "map sense," that would permit them to construct an internal image of their environment and then "place" themselves with respect to home on some internalized coordinate system. The first alternative seems unlikely. One possible model for such an inertial system might involve an internal magnetic compass to measure the directional leg of each journey. Birds transported to the release site wearing magnets or otherwise subjected to an artificial magnetic field, however, are only occasionally affected. Alternately, if pigeons measure their displacement by consciously keeping track of the direction and degree of acceleration and deceleration of the various turns, and timing the individual legs of the journey, simply transporting them in the dark, with constant rotations, or under complete anesthesia ought to impair or eliminate their ability to orient. These treatments, however, have no effect. Unfortunately, no one has yet performed the crucial experiment of transporting pigeons in total darkness, anesthetized, rotating, and with the magnetic field reversed all at the same time. The other alternative, that pigeons have a "map sense," seems more promising, yet the nature of this sense remains mysterious. Papi has posited that the map sense is olfactory: that birds come to associate odors borne on the wind with the direction in which the wind is blowing, and so slowly build up an olfactory map of their surroundings. When transported to the release site, then, they only have to sniff the air en route and/or at the site to know the direction of home. Papi conducted a series of experiments showing that pigeons whose nostrils have been plugged are poorly oriented at release and home slowly. One problem with the hypothesis is that Schmidt-Koenig and Phillips failed to detect any ability in pigeons to distinguish natural air (presumably laden with olfactory map information) from pure, filtered air. Papi's experimental results, moreover, admit of simpler, nonolfactory explanations. It seems likely that the behavior of nostril-plugged birds results from the distracting and traumatic nature of the experiment. When nasal tubes are used to bypass the olfactory chamber but allow for comfortable breathing, no disorientation is evident. Likewise, when the olfactory epithelium is sprayed with anesthetic to block smell-detection but not breathing, orientation is normal.

199812_3-RC_3_17

Which one of the following experiments would best test the "possibility" referred to in line 6?

Homing pigeons can be taken from their lofts and transported hundreds of kilometers in covered cages to unfamiliar sites and yet, when released, be able to choose fairly accurate homeward bearings within a minute and fly home. Aside from reading the minds of the experimenters (a possibility that has not escaped investigation), there are two basic explanations for the remarkable ability of pigeons to "home" : the birds might keep track of their outward displacement (the system of many short-range species such as honeybees); or they might have some sense, known as a "map sense," that would permit them to construct an internal image of their environment and then "place" themselves with respect to home on some internalized coordinate system. The first alternative seems unlikely. One possible model for such an inertial system might involve an internal magnetic compass to measure the directional leg of each journey. Birds transported to the release site wearing magnets or otherwise subjected to an artificial magnetic field, however, are only occasionally affected. Alternately, if pigeons measure their displacement by consciously keeping track of the direction and degree of acceleration and deceleration of the various turns, and timing the individual legs of the journey, simply transporting them in the dark, with constant rotations, or under complete anesthesia ought to impair or eliminate their ability to orient. These treatments, however, have no effect. Unfortunately, no one has yet performed the crucial experiment of transporting pigeons in total darkness, anesthetized, rotating, and with the magnetic field reversed all at the same time. The other alternative, that pigeons have a "map sense," seems more promising, yet the nature of this sense remains mysterious. Papi has posited that the map sense is olfactory: that birds come to associate odors borne on the wind with the direction in which the wind is blowing, and so slowly build up an olfactory map of their surroundings. When transported to the release site, then, they only have to sniff the air en route and/or at the site to know the direction of home. Papi conducted a series of experiments showing that pigeons whose nostrils have been plugged are poorly oriented at release and home slowly. One problem with the hypothesis is that Schmidt-Koenig and Phillips failed to detect any ability in pigeons to distinguish natural air (presumably laden with olfactory map information) from pure, filtered air. Papi's experimental results, moreover, admit of simpler, nonolfactory explanations. It seems likely that the behavior of nostril-plugged birds results from the distracting and traumatic nature of the experiment. When nasal tubes are used to bypass the olfactory chamber but allow for comfortable breathing, no disorientation is evident. Likewise, when the olfactory epithelium is sprayed with anesthetic to block smell-detection but not breathing, orientation is normal.

199812_3-RC_3_18

Information in the passage supports which one of the following statements regarding the "first alternative" (line 16) for explaining the ability of pigeons to "home" ?

Homing pigeons can be taken from their lofts and transported hundreds of kilometers in covered cages to unfamiliar sites and yet, when released, be able to choose fairly accurate homeward bearings within a minute and fly home. Aside from reading the minds of the experimenters (a possibility that has not escaped investigation), there are two basic explanations for the remarkable ability of pigeons to "home" : the birds might keep track of their outward displacement (the system of many short-range species such as honeybees); or they might have some sense, known as a "map sense," that would permit them to construct an internal image of their environment and then "place" themselves with respect to home on some internalized coordinate system. The first alternative seems unlikely. One possible model for such an inertial system might involve an internal magnetic compass to measure the directional leg of each journey. Birds transported to the release site wearing magnets or otherwise subjected to an artificial magnetic field, however, are only occasionally affected. Alternately, if pigeons measure their displacement by consciously keeping track of the direction and degree of acceleration and deceleration of the various turns, and timing the individual legs of the journey, simply transporting them in the dark, with constant rotations, or under complete anesthesia ought to impair or eliminate their ability to orient. These treatments, however, have no effect. Unfortunately, no one has yet performed the crucial experiment of transporting pigeons in total darkness, anesthetized, rotating, and with the magnetic field reversed all at the same time. The other alternative, that pigeons have a "map sense," seems more promising, yet the nature of this sense remains mysterious. Papi has posited that the map sense is olfactory: that birds come to associate odors borne on the wind with the direction in which the wind is blowing, and so slowly build up an olfactory map of their surroundings. When transported to the release site, then, they only have to sniff the air en route and/or at the site to know the direction of home. Papi conducted a series of experiments showing that pigeons whose nostrils have been plugged are poorly oriented at release and home slowly. One problem with the hypothesis is that Schmidt-Koenig and Phillips failed to detect any ability in pigeons to distinguish natural air (presumably laden with olfactory map information) from pure, filtered air. Papi's experimental results, moreover, admit of simpler, nonolfactory explanations. It seems likely that the behavior of nostril-plugged birds results from the distracting and traumatic nature of the experiment. When nasal tubes are used to bypass the olfactory chamber but allow for comfortable breathing, no disorientation is evident. Likewise, when the olfactory epithelium is sprayed with anesthetic to block smell-detection but not breathing, orientation is normal.

199812_3-RC_3_19

The author refers to "the system of many short-range species such as honeybees" (lines 9–11) most probably in order to

Homing pigeons can be taken from their lofts and transported hundreds of kilometers in covered cages to unfamiliar sites and yet, when released, be able to choose fairly accurate homeward bearings within a minute and fly home. Aside from reading the minds of the experimenters (a possibility that has not escaped investigation), there are two basic explanations for the remarkable ability of pigeons to "home" : the birds might keep track of their outward displacement (the system of many short-range species such as honeybees); or they might have some sense, known as a "map sense," that would permit them to construct an internal image of their environment and then "place" themselves with respect to home on some internalized coordinate system. The first alternative seems unlikely. One possible model for such an inertial system might involve an internal magnetic compass to measure the directional leg of each journey. Birds transported to the release site wearing magnets or otherwise subjected to an artificial magnetic field, however, are only occasionally affected. Alternately, if pigeons measure their displacement by consciously keeping track of the direction and degree of acceleration and deceleration of the various turns, and timing the individual legs of the journey, simply transporting them in the dark, with constant rotations, or under complete anesthesia ought to impair or eliminate their ability to orient. These treatments, however, have no effect. Unfortunately, no one has yet performed the crucial experiment of transporting pigeons in total darkness, anesthetized, rotating, and with the magnetic field reversed all at the same time. The other alternative, that pigeons have a "map sense," seems more promising, yet the nature of this sense remains mysterious. Papi has posited that the map sense is olfactory: that birds come to associate odors borne on the wind with the direction in which the wind is blowing, and so slowly build up an olfactory map of their surroundings. When transported to the release site, then, they only have to sniff the air en route and/or at the site to know the direction of home. Papi conducted a series of experiments showing that pigeons whose nostrils have been plugged are poorly oriented at release and home slowly. One problem with the hypothesis is that Schmidt-Koenig and Phillips failed to detect any ability in pigeons to distinguish natural air (presumably laden with olfactory map information) from pure, filtered air. Papi's experimental results, moreover, admit of simpler, nonolfactory explanations. It seems likely that the behavior of nostril-plugged birds results from the distracting and traumatic nature of the experiment. When nasal tubes are used to bypass the olfactory chamber but allow for comfortable breathing, no disorientation is evident. Likewise, when the olfactory epithelium is sprayed with anesthetic to block smell-detection but not breathing, orientation is normal.

199812_3-RC_3_20

Which one of the following, if true, would most weaken Papi's theory regarding homing pigeons' homing ability?

Homing pigeons can be taken from their lofts and transported hundreds of kilometers in covered cages to unfamiliar sites and yet, when released, be able to choose fairly accurate homeward bearings within a minute and fly home. Aside from reading the minds of the experimenters (a possibility that has not escaped investigation), there are two basic explanations for the remarkable ability of pigeons to "home" : the birds might keep track of their outward displacement (the system of many short-range species such as honeybees); or they might have some sense, known as a "map sense," that would permit them to construct an internal image of their environment and then "place" themselves with respect to home on some internalized coordinate system. The first alternative seems unlikely. One possible model for such an inertial system might involve an internal magnetic compass to measure the directional leg of each journey. Birds transported to the release site wearing magnets or otherwise subjected to an artificial magnetic field, however, are only occasionally affected. Alternately, if pigeons measure their displacement by consciously keeping track of the direction and degree of acceleration and deceleration of the various turns, and timing the individual legs of the journey, simply transporting them in the dark, with constant rotations, or under complete anesthesia ought to impair or eliminate their ability to orient. These treatments, however, have no effect. Unfortunately, no one has yet performed the crucial experiment of transporting pigeons in total darkness, anesthetized, rotating, and with the magnetic field reversed all at the same time. The other alternative, that pigeons have a "map sense," seems more promising, yet the nature of this sense remains mysterious. Papi has posited that the map sense is olfactory: that birds come to associate odors borne on the wind with the direction in which the wind is blowing, and so slowly build up an olfactory map of their surroundings. When transported to the release site, then, they only have to sniff the air en route and/or at the site to know the direction of home. Papi conducted a series of experiments showing that pigeons whose nostrils have been plugged are poorly oriented at release and home slowly. One problem with the hypothesis is that Schmidt-Koenig and Phillips failed to detect any ability in pigeons to distinguish natural air (presumably laden with olfactory map information) from pure, filtered air. Papi's experimental results, moreover, admit of simpler, nonolfactory explanations. It seems likely that the behavior of nostril-plugged birds results from the distracting and traumatic nature of the experiment. When nasal tubes are used to bypass the olfactory chamber but allow for comfortable breathing, no disorientation is evident. Likewise, when the olfactory epithelium is sprayed with anesthetic to block smell-detection but not breathing, orientation is normal.

199812_3-RC_3_21

Given the information in the passage, it is most likely that Papi and the author of the passage would both agree with which one of the following statements regarding the homing ability of pigeons?

Freud's essay on the "Uncanny" can be said to have defined, for our century, what literary criticism once called the Sublime. This apprehension of a beyond or of a daemonic—a sense of transcendence— appears in literature or life, according to Freud, when we feel that something uncanny is being represented, or conjured up, or at least intimated. Freud locates the source of the uncanny in our tendency to believe in the "omnipotence of thought," that is, in the power of our own or of others' minds over the natural world. The uncanny is, thus, a return to animistic conceptions of the universe, and is produced by the psychic defense mechanisms Freud called repression. It would have seemed likely for Freud to find his literary instances of the uncanny, or at least some of them, in fairy tales, since as much as any other fictions they seem to be connected with repressed desires and archaic forms of thought. But Freud specifically excluded fairy tales from the realm of the uncanny. "Who would be so bold," Freud asks, "as to call it an uncanny moment, for instance, when Snow White opens her eyes once more?" Why not? Because, he goes on to say, in those stories everything is possible, so nothing is incredible, and, therefore, no conflicts in the reader's judgment are provoked. Thus Freud, alas, found fairy tales to be unsuited to his own analysis. However, the psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim, with a kind of wise innocence, has subjected fairy tales to very close, generally orthodox, and wholly reductive Freudian interpretations. Bettelheim's book, although written in apparent ignorance of the vast critical traditions of interpreting literary romance, is nevertheless a splendid achievement, brimming with useful ideas and insights into how young children read and understand. Bruno Bettelheim's major therapeutic concern has been with autistic children, so inevitably his interpretive activity is directed against a child's tendency to withdraw defensively or abnormally. According to Bettelheim, a child's desperate isolation, loneliness, and inarticulate anxieties are addressed directly by fairy tales. By telling the child such stores themselves, parents strengthen the therapeutic effect of fairy tales, for in the telling, parents impart to the child their approval of the stories. But why should fairy tales, in themselves, be therapeutic? Bettelheim's answer depends on the child's being an interpreter: "The fairy tale is therapeutic because children find their own solutions, through contemplating what the story seems to imply about their inner conflicts at this moment in their lives." Bettelheim proceeds on the basis of two complementary assumptions: that children will interpret a story benignly, for their own good; and that Freudian interpretations will yield an accurate account of children's interpretations. The child, questing for help, and the analyst, attempting to find helpful patterns in the stories, thus read alike, though in different vocabularies.

199812_3-RC_4_22

According to the author, Bettelheim believes that fairy tales help troubled children by

Freud's essay on the "Uncanny" can be said to have defined, for our century, what literary criticism once called the Sublime. This apprehension of a beyond or of a daemonic—a sense of transcendence— appears in literature or life, according to Freud, when we feel that something uncanny is being represented, or conjured up, or at least intimated. Freud locates the source of the uncanny in our tendency to believe in the "omnipotence of thought," that is, in the power of our own or of others' minds over the natural world. The uncanny is, thus, a return to animistic conceptions of the universe, and is produced by the psychic defense mechanisms Freud called repression. It would have seemed likely for Freud to find his literary instances of the uncanny, or at least some of them, in fairy tales, since as much as any other fictions they seem to be connected with repressed desires and archaic forms of thought. But Freud specifically excluded fairy tales from the realm of the uncanny. "Who would be so bold," Freud asks, "as to call it an uncanny moment, for instance, when Snow White opens her eyes once more?" Why not? Because, he goes on to say, in those stories everything is possible, so nothing is incredible, and, therefore, no conflicts in the reader's judgment are provoked. Thus Freud, alas, found fairy tales to be unsuited to his own analysis. However, the psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim, with a kind of wise innocence, has subjected fairy tales to very close, generally orthodox, and wholly reductive Freudian interpretations. Bettelheim's book, although written in apparent ignorance of the vast critical traditions of interpreting literary romance, is nevertheless a splendid achievement, brimming with useful ideas and insights into how young children read and understand. Bruno Bettelheim's major therapeutic concern has been with autistic children, so inevitably his interpretive activity is directed against a child's tendency to withdraw defensively or abnormally. According to Bettelheim, a child's desperate isolation, loneliness, and inarticulate anxieties are addressed directly by fairy tales. By telling the child such stores themselves, parents strengthen the therapeutic effect of fairy tales, for in the telling, parents impart to the child their approval of the stories. But why should fairy tales, in themselves, be therapeutic? Bettelheim's answer depends on the child's being an interpreter: "The fairy tale is therapeutic because children find their own solutions, through contemplating what the story seems to imply about their inner conflicts at this moment in their lives." Bettelheim proceeds on the basis of two complementary assumptions: that children will interpret a story benignly, for their own good; and that Freudian interpretations will yield an accurate account of children's interpretations. The child, questing for help, and the analyst, attempting to find helpful patterns in the stories, thus read alike, though in different vocabularies.

199812_3-RC_4_23

According to the passage, Bettelheim believes that parents' telling fairy tales to troubled children strengthens the tales' therapeutic effect because

Freud's essay on the "Uncanny" can be said to have defined, for our century, what literary criticism once called the Sublime. This apprehension of a beyond or of a daemonic—a sense of transcendence— appears in literature or life, according to Freud, when we feel that something uncanny is being represented, or conjured up, or at least intimated. Freud locates the source of the uncanny in our tendency to believe in the "omnipotence of thought," that is, in the power of our own or of others' minds over the natural world. The uncanny is, thus, a return to animistic conceptions of the universe, and is produced by the psychic defense mechanisms Freud called repression. It would have seemed likely for Freud to find his literary instances of the uncanny, or at least some of them, in fairy tales, since as much as any other fictions they seem to be connected with repressed desires and archaic forms of thought. But Freud specifically excluded fairy tales from the realm of the uncanny. "Who would be so bold," Freud asks, "as to call it an uncanny moment, for instance, when Snow White opens her eyes once more?" Why not? Because, he goes on to say, in those stories everything is possible, so nothing is incredible, and, therefore, no conflicts in the reader's judgment are provoked. Thus Freud, alas, found fairy tales to be unsuited to his own analysis. However, the psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim, with a kind of wise innocence, has subjected fairy tales to very close, generally orthodox, and wholly reductive Freudian interpretations. Bettelheim's book, although written in apparent ignorance of the vast critical traditions of interpreting literary romance, is nevertheless a splendid achievement, brimming with useful ideas and insights into how young children read and understand. Bruno Bettelheim's major therapeutic concern has been with autistic children, so inevitably his interpretive activity is directed against a child's tendency to withdraw defensively or abnormally. According to Bettelheim, a child's desperate isolation, loneliness, and inarticulate anxieties are addressed directly by fairy tales. By telling the child such stores themselves, parents strengthen the therapeutic effect of fairy tales, for in the telling, parents impart to the child their approval of the stories. But why should fairy tales, in themselves, be therapeutic? Bettelheim's answer depends on the child's being an interpreter: "The fairy tale is therapeutic because children find their own solutions, through contemplating what the story seems to imply about their inner conflicts at this moment in their lives." Bettelheim proceeds on the basis of two complementary assumptions: that children will interpret a story benignly, for their own good; and that Freudian interpretations will yield an accurate account of children's interpretations. The child, questing for help, and the analyst, attempting to find helpful patterns in the stories, thus read alike, though in different vocabularies.

199812_3-RC_4_24

It can be inferred from the passage that Freud believed that in fairy tales, "nothing is incredible" (line 24) because, in his view,

Freud's essay on the "Uncanny" can be said to have defined, for our century, what literary criticism once called the Sublime. This apprehension of a beyond or of a daemonic—a sense of transcendence— appears in literature or life, according to Freud, when we feel that something uncanny is being represented, or conjured up, or at least intimated. Freud locates the source of the uncanny in our tendency to believe in the "omnipotence of thought," that is, in the power of our own or of others' minds over the natural world. The uncanny is, thus, a return to animistic conceptions of the universe, and is produced by the psychic defense mechanisms Freud called repression. It would have seemed likely for Freud to find his literary instances of the uncanny, or at least some of them, in fairy tales, since as much as any other fictions they seem to be connected with repressed desires and archaic forms of thought. But Freud specifically excluded fairy tales from the realm of the uncanny. "Who would be so bold," Freud asks, "as to call it an uncanny moment, for instance, when Snow White opens her eyes once more?" Why not? Because, he goes on to say, in those stories everything is possible, so nothing is incredible, and, therefore, no conflicts in the reader's judgment are provoked. Thus Freud, alas, found fairy tales to be unsuited to his own analysis. However, the psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim, with a kind of wise innocence, has subjected fairy tales to very close, generally orthodox, and wholly reductive Freudian interpretations. Bettelheim's book, although written in apparent ignorance of the vast critical traditions of interpreting literary romance, is nevertheless a splendid achievement, brimming with useful ideas and insights into how young children read and understand. Bruno Bettelheim's major therapeutic concern has been with autistic children, so inevitably his interpretive activity is directed against a child's tendency to withdraw defensively or abnormally. According to Bettelheim, a child's desperate isolation, loneliness, and inarticulate anxieties are addressed directly by fairy tales. By telling the child such stores themselves, parents strengthen the therapeutic effect of fairy tales, for in the telling, parents impart to the child their approval of the stories. But why should fairy tales, in themselves, be therapeutic? Bettelheim's answer depends on the child's being an interpreter: "The fairy tale is therapeutic because children find their own solutions, through contemplating what the story seems to imply about their inner conflicts at this moment in their lives." Bettelheim proceeds on the basis of two complementary assumptions: that children will interpret a story benignly, for their own good; and that Freudian interpretations will yield an accurate account of children's interpretations. The child, questing for help, and the analyst, attempting to find helpful patterns in the stories, thus read alike, though in different vocabularies.

199812_3-RC_4_25

According to the passage, Bettelheim believes that when children interpret a story benignly, they

Freud's essay on the "Uncanny" can be said to have defined, for our century, what literary criticism once called the Sublime. This apprehension of a beyond or of a daemonic—a sense of transcendence— appears in literature or life, according to Freud, when we feel that something uncanny is being represented, or conjured up, or at least intimated. Freud locates the source of the uncanny in our tendency to believe in the "omnipotence of thought," that is, in the power of our own or of others' minds over the natural world. The uncanny is, thus, a return to animistic conceptions of the universe, and is produced by the psychic defense mechanisms Freud called repression. It would have seemed likely for Freud to find his literary instances of the uncanny, or at least some of them, in fairy tales, since as much as any other fictions they seem to be connected with repressed desires and archaic forms of thought. But Freud specifically excluded fairy tales from the realm of the uncanny. "Who would be so bold," Freud asks, "as to call it an uncanny moment, for instance, when Snow White opens her eyes once more?" Why not? Because, he goes on to say, in those stories everything is possible, so nothing is incredible, and, therefore, no conflicts in the reader's judgment are provoked. Thus Freud, alas, found fairy tales to be unsuited to his own analysis. However, the psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim, with a kind of wise innocence, has subjected fairy tales to very close, generally orthodox, and wholly reductive Freudian interpretations. Bettelheim's book, although written in apparent ignorance of the vast critical traditions of interpreting literary romance, is nevertheless a splendid achievement, brimming with useful ideas and insights into how young children read and understand. Bruno Bettelheim's major therapeutic concern has been with autistic children, so inevitably his interpretive activity is directed against a child's tendency to withdraw defensively or abnormally. According to Bettelheim, a child's desperate isolation, loneliness, and inarticulate anxieties are addressed directly by fairy tales. By telling the child such stores themselves, parents strengthen the therapeutic effect of fairy tales, for in the telling, parents impart to the child their approval of the stories. But why should fairy tales, in themselves, be therapeutic? Bettelheim's answer depends on the child's being an interpreter: "The fairy tale is therapeutic because children find their own solutions, through contemplating what the story seems to imply about their inner conflicts at this moment in their lives." Bettelheim proceeds on the basis of two complementary assumptions: that children will interpret a story benignly, for their own good; and that Freudian interpretations will yield an accurate account of children's interpretations. The child, questing for help, and the analyst, attempting to find helpful patterns in the stories, thus read alike, though in different vocabularies.

199812_3-RC_4_26

Which one of the following best describes the author's attitude toward Bettelheim's work?

Until recently, many biologists believed that invertebrate "schools" were actually transient assemblages, brought together by wind, currents, waves, or common food sources. Jellyfish groupings, for example, cannot be described as schools—cohesive social units whose members are evenly spaced and face the same way. However, recent research has found numerous cases in which crustaceans and other invertebrates form schools as fish do. Schooling crustaceans such as krill regularly collect in such massive numbers that they provide abundant food for fish, seabirds, and whales. Like schooling fish, invertebrates with sufficient mobility to school will swim in positions that are consistent relative to fellow school members, and are neither directly above nor directly below a neighbor. The internal structure of such a school changes little with external physical disruption but dramatically with the advent of a predator. Since schooling is an active behavior, researchers assume that it must bring important benefits. True, schooling would appear to make animals more visible and attractive to predators. However, schooling leaves vast tracts of empty water, thereby reducing a predator's chances of picking up the school's trail. A large group maintains surveillance better then an individual can, and may discourage predation by appearing to be one massive animal. And although an attacking predator may eat some of the invertebrates, any individual school member has a good probability of escaping. In addition to conferring passive advantages, schooling permits the use of more active defense mechanisms. When a predator is sighted, the school compacts, so that a predator's senses may be unable to resolve individuals, or so that the school can execute escape maneuvers, such as freezing to foil predators that hunt by detecting turbulence. If the predator attacks, the school may split, or may employ "flash expansion" —an explosive acceleration of animals away from the school's center. When large predators threaten the entire school, the school may attempt to avoid detection altogether or to reduce the density of the school at the point of attack; when small predators threaten the margin, school members may put on dazzling and confusing displays of synchronized swimming. Schooling may also enable invertebrates to locate food—when one group member finds food, other members observe its behavior and flock to the food source. On the other hand, competition within the school for food may be intense: some mysids circle around to the back of the school in order to eat food particles surreptitiously. Schooling can facilitate the search for mates, but as a school's numbers rise, food may become locally scarce and females may produce smaller clutches of eggs, or adults may start to feed on the young. Thus, circumstances apparently dictate the optimal size of a school; if that size is exceeded, some of the animals will join another school.

199902_3-RC_1_1

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

Until recently, many biologists believed that invertebrate "schools" were actually transient assemblages, brought together by wind, currents, waves, or common food sources. Jellyfish groupings, for example, cannot be described as schools—cohesive social units whose members are evenly spaced and face the same way. However, recent research has found numerous cases in which crustaceans and other invertebrates form schools as fish do. Schooling crustaceans such as krill regularly collect in such massive numbers that they provide abundant food for fish, seabirds, and whales. Like schooling fish, invertebrates with sufficient mobility to school will swim in positions that are consistent relative to fellow school members, and are neither directly above nor directly below a neighbor. The internal structure of such a school changes little with external physical disruption but dramatically with the advent of a predator. Since schooling is an active behavior, researchers assume that it must bring important benefits. True, schooling would appear to make animals more visible and attractive to predators. However, schooling leaves vast tracts of empty water, thereby reducing a predator's chances of picking up the school's trail. A large group maintains surveillance better then an individual can, and may discourage predation by appearing to be one massive animal. And although an attacking predator may eat some of the invertebrates, any individual school member has a good probability of escaping. In addition to conferring passive advantages, schooling permits the use of more active defense mechanisms. When a predator is sighted, the school compacts, so that a predator's senses may be unable to resolve individuals, or so that the school can execute escape maneuvers, such as freezing to foil predators that hunt by detecting turbulence. If the predator attacks, the school may split, or may employ "flash expansion" —an explosive acceleration of animals away from the school's center. When large predators threaten the entire school, the school may attempt to avoid detection altogether or to reduce the density of the school at the point of attack; when small predators threaten the margin, school members may put on dazzling and confusing displays of synchronized swimming. Schooling may also enable invertebrates to locate food—when one group member finds food, other members observe its behavior and flock to the food source. On the other hand, competition within the school for food may be intense: some mysids circle around to the back of the school in order to eat food particles surreptitiously. Schooling can facilitate the search for mates, but as a school's numbers rise, food may become locally scarce and females may produce smaller clutches of eggs, or adults may start to feed on the young. Thus, circumstances apparently dictate the optimal size of a school; if that size is exceeded, some of the animals will join another school.

199902_3-RC_1_2

According to the passage, each of the following is characteristic of an invertebrate school EXCEPT:

Until recently, many biologists believed that invertebrate "schools" were actually transient assemblages, brought together by wind, currents, waves, or common food sources. Jellyfish groupings, for example, cannot be described as schools—cohesive social units whose members are evenly spaced and face the same way. However, recent research has found numerous cases in which crustaceans and other invertebrates form schools as fish do. Schooling crustaceans such as krill regularly collect in such massive numbers that they provide abundant food for fish, seabirds, and whales. Like schooling fish, invertebrates with sufficient mobility to school will swim in positions that are consistent relative to fellow school members, and are neither directly above nor directly below a neighbor. The internal structure of such a school changes little with external physical disruption but dramatically with the advent of a predator. Since schooling is an active behavior, researchers assume that it must bring important benefits. True, schooling would appear to make animals more visible and attractive to predators. However, schooling leaves vast tracts of empty water, thereby reducing a predator's chances of picking up the school's trail. A large group maintains surveillance better then an individual can, and may discourage predation by appearing to be one massive animal. And although an attacking predator may eat some of the invertebrates, any individual school member has a good probability of escaping. In addition to conferring passive advantages, schooling permits the use of more active defense mechanisms. When a predator is sighted, the school compacts, so that a predator's senses may be unable to resolve individuals, or so that the school can execute escape maneuvers, such as freezing to foil predators that hunt by detecting turbulence. If the predator attacks, the school may split, or may employ "flash expansion" —an explosive acceleration of animals away from the school's center. When large predators threaten the entire school, the school may attempt to avoid detection altogether or to reduce the density of the school at the point of attack; when small predators threaten the margin, school members may put on dazzling and confusing displays of synchronized swimming. Schooling may also enable invertebrates to locate food—when one group member finds food, other members observe its behavior and flock to the food source. On the other hand, competition within the school for food may be intense: some mysids circle around to the back of the school in order to eat food particles surreptitiously. Schooling can facilitate the search for mates, but as a school's numbers rise, food may become locally scarce and females may produce smaller clutches of eggs, or adults may start to feed on the young. Thus, circumstances apparently dictate the optimal size of a school; if that size is exceeded, some of the animals will join another school.

199902_3-RC_1_3

If substituted for the word "resolve" in line 36, which one of the following words would convey the same meaning in the context of the passage?

Until recently, many biologists believed that invertebrate "schools" were actually transient assemblages, brought together by wind, currents, waves, or common food sources. Jellyfish groupings, for example, cannot be described as schools—cohesive social units whose members are evenly spaced and face the same way. However, recent research has found numerous cases in which crustaceans and other invertebrates form schools as fish do. Schooling crustaceans such as krill regularly collect in such massive numbers that they provide abundant food for fish, seabirds, and whales. Like schooling fish, invertebrates with sufficient mobility to school will swim in positions that are consistent relative to fellow school members, and are neither directly above nor directly below a neighbor. The internal structure of such a school changes little with external physical disruption but dramatically with the advent of a predator. Since schooling is an active behavior, researchers assume that it must bring important benefits. True, schooling would appear to make animals more visible and attractive to predators. However, schooling leaves vast tracts of empty water, thereby reducing a predator's chances of picking up the school's trail. A large group maintains surveillance better then an individual can, and may discourage predation by appearing to be one massive animal. And although an attacking predator may eat some of the invertebrates, any individual school member has a good probability of escaping. In addition to conferring passive advantages, schooling permits the use of more active defense mechanisms. When a predator is sighted, the school compacts, so that a predator's senses may be unable to resolve individuals, or so that the school can execute escape maneuvers, such as freezing to foil predators that hunt by detecting turbulence. If the predator attacks, the school may split, or may employ "flash expansion" —an explosive acceleration of animals away from the school's center. When large predators threaten the entire school, the school may attempt to avoid detection altogether or to reduce the density of the school at the point of attack; when small predators threaten the margin, school members may put on dazzling and confusing displays of synchronized swimming. Schooling may also enable invertebrates to locate food—when one group member finds food, other members observe its behavior and flock to the food source. On the other hand, competition within the school for food may be intense: some mysids circle around to the back of the school in order to eat food particles surreptitiously. Schooling can facilitate the search for mates, but as a school's numbers rise, food may become locally scarce and females may produce smaller clutches of eggs, or adults may start to feed on the young. Thus, circumstances apparently dictate the optimal size of a school; if that size is exceeded, some of the animals will join another school.

199902_3-RC_1_4

Which line of the following best describes the final paragraph of the passage?

Until recently, many biologists believed that invertebrate "schools" were actually transient assemblages, brought together by wind, currents, waves, or common food sources. Jellyfish groupings, for example, cannot be described as schools—cohesive social units whose members are evenly spaced and face the same way. However, recent research has found numerous cases in which crustaceans and other invertebrates form schools as fish do. Schooling crustaceans such as krill regularly collect in such massive numbers that they provide abundant food for fish, seabirds, and whales. Like schooling fish, invertebrates with sufficient mobility to school will swim in positions that are consistent relative to fellow school members, and are neither directly above nor directly below a neighbor. The internal structure of such a school changes little with external physical disruption but dramatically with the advent of a predator. Since schooling is an active behavior, researchers assume that it must bring important benefits. True, schooling would appear to make animals more visible and attractive to predators. However, schooling leaves vast tracts of empty water, thereby reducing a predator's chances of picking up the school's trail. A large group maintains surveillance better then an individual can, and may discourage predation by appearing to be one massive animal. And although an attacking predator may eat some of the invertebrates, any individual school member has a good probability of escaping. In addition to conferring passive advantages, schooling permits the use of more active defense mechanisms. When a predator is sighted, the school compacts, so that a predator's senses may be unable to resolve individuals, or so that the school can execute escape maneuvers, such as freezing to foil predators that hunt by detecting turbulence. If the predator attacks, the school may split, or may employ "flash expansion" —an explosive acceleration of animals away from the school's center. When large predators threaten the entire school, the school may attempt to avoid detection altogether or to reduce the density of the school at the point of attack; when small predators threaten the margin, school members may put on dazzling and confusing displays of synchronized swimming. Schooling may also enable invertebrates to locate food—when one group member finds food, other members observe its behavior and flock to the food source. On the other hand, competition within the school for food may be intense: some mysids circle around to the back of the school in order to eat food particles surreptitiously. Schooling can facilitate the search for mates, but as a school's numbers rise, food may become locally scarce and females may produce smaller clutches of eggs, or adults may start to feed on the young. Thus, circumstances apparently dictate the optimal size of a school; if that size is exceeded, some of the animals will join another school.

199902_3-RC_1_5

According to the passage, jellyfish are an example of invertebrates that

Until recently, many biologists believed that invertebrate "schools" were actually transient assemblages, brought together by wind, currents, waves, or common food sources. Jellyfish groupings, for example, cannot be described as schools—cohesive social units whose members are evenly spaced and face the same way. However, recent research has found numerous cases in which crustaceans and other invertebrates form schools as fish do. Schooling crustaceans such as krill regularly collect in such massive numbers that they provide abundant food for fish, seabirds, and whales. Like schooling fish, invertebrates with sufficient mobility to school will swim in positions that are consistent relative to fellow school members, and are neither directly above nor directly below a neighbor. The internal structure of such a school changes little with external physical disruption but dramatically with the advent of a predator. Since schooling is an active behavior, researchers assume that it must bring important benefits. True, schooling would appear to make animals more visible and attractive to predators. However, schooling leaves vast tracts of empty water, thereby reducing a predator's chances of picking up the school's trail. A large group maintains surveillance better then an individual can, and may discourage predation by appearing to be one massive animal. And although an attacking predator may eat some of the invertebrates, any individual school member has a good probability of escaping. In addition to conferring passive advantages, schooling permits the use of more active defense mechanisms. When a predator is sighted, the school compacts, so that a predator's senses may be unable to resolve individuals, or so that the school can execute escape maneuvers, such as freezing to foil predators that hunt by detecting turbulence. If the predator attacks, the school may split, or may employ "flash expansion" —an explosive acceleration of animals away from the school's center. When large predators threaten the entire school, the school may attempt to avoid detection altogether or to reduce the density of the school at the point of attack; when small predators threaten the margin, school members may put on dazzling and confusing displays of synchronized swimming. Schooling may also enable invertebrates to locate food—when one group member finds food, other members observe its behavior and flock to the food source. On the other hand, competition within the school for food may be intense: some mysids circle around to the back of the school in order to eat food particles surreptitiously. Schooling can facilitate the search for mates, but as a school's numbers rise, food may become locally scarce and females may produce smaller clutches of eggs, or adults may start to feed on the young. Thus, circumstances apparently dictate the optimal size of a school; if that size is exceeded, some of the animals will join another school.

199902_3-RC_1_6

It can be inferred from the passage that if cannibalism were occurring in a large school of crustaceans, an individual crustacean encountering the school would

Until recently, many biologists believed that invertebrate "schools" were actually transient assemblages, brought together by wind, currents, waves, or common food sources. Jellyfish groupings, for example, cannot be described as schools—cohesive social units whose members are evenly spaced and face the same way. However, recent research has found numerous cases in which crustaceans and other invertebrates form schools as fish do. Schooling crustaceans such as krill regularly collect in such massive numbers that they provide abundant food for fish, seabirds, and whales. Like schooling fish, invertebrates with sufficient mobility to school will swim in positions that are consistent relative to fellow school members, and are neither directly above nor directly below a neighbor. The internal structure of such a school changes little with external physical disruption but dramatically with the advent of a predator. Since schooling is an active behavior, researchers assume that it must bring important benefits. True, schooling would appear to make animals more visible and attractive to predators. However, schooling leaves vast tracts of empty water, thereby reducing a predator's chances of picking up the school's trail. A large group maintains surveillance better then an individual can, and may discourage predation by appearing to be one massive animal. And although an attacking predator may eat some of the invertebrates, any individual school member has a good probability of escaping. In addition to conferring passive advantages, schooling permits the use of more active defense mechanisms. When a predator is sighted, the school compacts, so that a predator's senses may be unable to resolve individuals, or so that the school can execute escape maneuvers, such as freezing to foil predators that hunt by detecting turbulence. If the predator attacks, the school may split, or may employ "flash expansion" —an explosive acceleration of animals away from the school's center. When large predators threaten the entire school, the school may attempt to avoid detection altogether or to reduce the density of the school at the point of attack; when small predators threaten the margin, school members may put on dazzling and confusing displays of synchronized swimming. Schooling may also enable invertebrates to locate food—when one group member finds food, other members observe its behavior and flock to the food source. On the other hand, competition within the school for food may be intense: some mysids circle around to the back of the school in order to eat food particles surreptitiously. Schooling can facilitate the search for mates, but as a school's numbers rise, food may become locally scarce and females may produce smaller clutches of eggs, or adults may start to feed on the young. Thus, circumstances apparently dictate the optimal size of a school; if that size is exceeded, some of the animals will join another school.

199902_3-RC_1_7

Which one of the following, if true, would most clearly undermine the assumption about schooling mentioned in the first sentence of the third paragraph?

Many of us can conceive of penalties that seem disproportionate to the crimes they are intended to punish. A sentence of probation for a person convicted of a brutal murder is one example of such an imbalance. At the other extreme is a sentence of twenty years in prison for shoplifting. But what is the source of these commonsense intuitions about the appropriateness of punishments? There are two main rationales for punishing criminals. The first rationale justifies a punishment in terms of its benefit to society. Society is said to benefit whenever the fear of punishment deters a person from committing a crime, or when a convicted criminal is removed from contact with society at large. The second rationale is that a punishment is justified by the severity of the crime, independent of any benefit to society. This rationale is controversial because some find it difficult to see how a punishment can be justified if it brings no societal benefit; without such benefit, punishment would appear to be little more than retribution. But from the retributivist point of view, the question to be asked about punishment is not whether it is beneficial, but whether it is just—that is, appropriate. One problem with the social-benefit rationale is that it is possible that very harsh penalties even for minor offenses may have great benefit to society. For example, if shoplifters faced twenty-year jail sentences, shoplifting might be deterred. Yet something leads us to say that in such cases the penalty far outweighs the crime. That is, there appears to be something intuitively wrong, or unjust, about these punishments. And it would seem that this intuition can only find support in a retributive conception of punishment, under which certain types of punishments are inherently more appropriate than others. The notion of appropriateness is absent from the first rationale, which could conceivably allow for any sort of punishment as long as it benefits society. Retributive considerations, on the other hand, allow for proportionality between punishments and crimes. This is what fuels our notion of just (as opposed to beneficial) punishment. However, it can be argued that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment is based on our sense that such a punishment is more harmful to the criminal than beneficial to society; and, similarly, that our intuition that a punishment is just is based on our sense that this punishment fairly balances societal benefit against harm to the criminal. In this way the second rationale can be seen as grounded in the first and its retributive nature disappears. Thus it seems that even our so-called intuitive notions of the appropriateness of punishments have their basis in the concept of benefit.

199902_3-RC_2_8

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

Many of us can conceive of penalties that seem disproportionate to the crimes they are intended to punish. A sentence of probation for a person convicted of a brutal murder is one example of such an imbalance. At the other extreme is a sentence of twenty years in prison for shoplifting. But what is the source of these commonsense intuitions about the appropriateness of punishments? There are two main rationales for punishing criminals. The first rationale justifies a punishment in terms of its benefit to society. Society is said to benefit whenever the fear of punishment deters a person from committing a crime, or when a convicted criminal is removed from contact with society at large. The second rationale is that a punishment is justified by the severity of the crime, independent of any benefit to society. This rationale is controversial because some find it difficult to see how a punishment can be justified if it brings no societal benefit; without such benefit, punishment would appear to be little more than retribution. But from the retributivist point of view, the question to be asked about punishment is not whether it is beneficial, but whether it is just—that is, appropriate. One problem with the social-benefit rationale is that it is possible that very harsh penalties even for minor offenses may have great benefit to society. For example, if shoplifters faced twenty-year jail sentences, shoplifting might be deterred. Yet something leads us to say that in such cases the penalty far outweighs the crime. That is, there appears to be something intuitively wrong, or unjust, about these punishments. And it would seem that this intuition can only find support in a retributive conception of punishment, under which certain types of punishments are inherently more appropriate than others. The notion of appropriateness is absent from the first rationale, which could conceivably allow for any sort of punishment as long as it benefits society. Retributive considerations, on the other hand, allow for proportionality between punishments and crimes. This is what fuels our notion of just (as opposed to beneficial) punishment. However, it can be argued that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment is based on our sense that such a punishment is more harmful to the criminal than beneficial to society; and, similarly, that our intuition that a punishment is just is based on our sense that this punishment fairly balances societal benefit against harm to the criminal. In this way the second rationale can be seen as grounded in the first and its retributive nature disappears. Thus it seems that even our so-called intuitive notions of the appropriateness of punishments have their basis in the concept of benefit.

199902_3-RC_2_9

According to the passage, the second rationale for punishing criminals is controversial because it

Many of us can conceive of penalties that seem disproportionate to the crimes they are intended to punish. A sentence of probation for a person convicted of a brutal murder is one example of such an imbalance. At the other extreme is a sentence of twenty years in prison for shoplifting. But what is the source of these commonsense intuitions about the appropriateness of punishments? There are two main rationales for punishing criminals. The first rationale justifies a punishment in terms of its benefit to society. Society is said to benefit whenever the fear of punishment deters a person from committing a crime, or when a convicted criminal is removed from contact with society at large. The second rationale is that a punishment is justified by the severity of the crime, independent of any benefit to society. This rationale is controversial because some find it difficult to see how a punishment can be justified if it brings no societal benefit; without such benefit, punishment would appear to be little more than retribution. But from the retributivist point of view, the question to be asked about punishment is not whether it is beneficial, but whether it is just—that is, appropriate. One problem with the social-benefit rationale is that it is possible that very harsh penalties even for minor offenses may have great benefit to society. For example, if shoplifters faced twenty-year jail sentences, shoplifting might be deterred. Yet something leads us to say that in such cases the penalty far outweighs the crime. That is, there appears to be something intuitively wrong, or unjust, about these punishments. And it would seem that this intuition can only find support in a retributive conception of punishment, under which certain types of punishments are inherently more appropriate than others. The notion of appropriateness is absent from the first rationale, which could conceivably allow for any sort of punishment as long as it benefits society. Retributive considerations, on the other hand, allow for proportionality between punishments and crimes. This is what fuels our notion of just (as opposed to beneficial) punishment. However, it can be argued that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment is based on our sense that such a punishment is more harmful to the criminal than beneficial to society; and, similarly, that our intuition that a punishment is just is based on our sense that this punishment fairly balances societal benefit against harm to the criminal. In this way the second rationale can be seen as grounded in the first and its retributive nature disappears. Thus it seems that even our so-called intuitive notions of the appropriateness of punishments have their basis in the concept of benefit.

199902_3-RC_2_10

Based on the passage, the "retributive nature" of the second rationale for punishing criminals (line 50) consists in that rationale's

Many of us can conceive of penalties that seem disproportionate to the crimes they are intended to punish. A sentence of probation for a person convicted of a brutal murder is one example of such an imbalance. At the other extreme is a sentence of twenty years in prison for shoplifting. But what is the source of these commonsense intuitions about the appropriateness of punishments? There are two main rationales for punishing criminals. The first rationale justifies a punishment in terms of its benefit to society. Society is said to benefit whenever the fear of punishment deters a person from committing a crime, or when a convicted criminal is removed from contact with society at large. The second rationale is that a punishment is justified by the severity of the crime, independent of any benefit to society. This rationale is controversial because some find it difficult to see how a punishment can be justified if it brings no societal benefit; without such benefit, punishment would appear to be little more than retribution. But from the retributivist point of view, the question to be asked about punishment is not whether it is beneficial, but whether it is just—that is, appropriate. One problem with the social-benefit rationale is that it is possible that very harsh penalties even for minor offenses may have great benefit to society. For example, if shoplifters faced twenty-year jail sentences, shoplifting might be deterred. Yet something leads us to say that in such cases the penalty far outweighs the crime. That is, there appears to be something intuitively wrong, or unjust, about these punishments. And it would seem that this intuition can only find support in a retributive conception of punishment, under which certain types of punishments are inherently more appropriate than others. The notion of appropriateness is absent from the first rationale, which could conceivably allow for any sort of punishment as long as it benefits society. Retributive considerations, on the other hand, allow for proportionality between punishments and crimes. This is what fuels our notion of just (as opposed to beneficial) punishment. However, it can be argued that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment is based on our sense that such a punishment is more harmful to the criminal than beneficial to society; and, similarly, that our intuition that a punishment is just is based on our sense that this punishment fairly balances societal benefit against harm to the criminal. In this way the second rationale can be seen as grounded in the first and its retributive nature disappears. Thus it seems that even our so-called intuitive notions of the appropriateness of punishments have their basis in the concept of benefit.

199902_3-RC_2_11

The author states that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment may be based on which one of the following notions?

Many of us can conceive of penalties that seem disproportionate to the crimes they are intended to punish. A sentence of probation for a person convicted of a brutal murder is one example of such an imbalance. At the other extreme is a sentence of twenty years in prison for shoplifting. But what is the source of these commonsense intuitions about the appropriateness of punishments? There are two main rationales for punishing criminals. The first rationale justifies a punishment in terms of its benefit to society. Society is said to benefit whenever the fear of punishment deters a person from committing a crime, or when a convicted criminal is removed from contact with society at large. The second rationale is that a punishment is justified by the severity of the crime, independent of any benefit to society. This rationale is controversial because some find it difficult to see how a punishment can be justified if it brings no societal benefit; without such benefit, punishment would appear to be little more than retribution. But from the retributivist point of view, the question to be asked about punishment is not whether it is beneficial, but whether it is just—that is, appropriate. One problem with the social-benefit rationale is that it is possible that very harsh penalties even for minor offenses may have great benefit to society. For example, if shoplifters faced twenty-year jail sentences, shoplifting might be deterred. Yet something leads us to say that in such cases the penalty far outweighs the crime. That is, there appears to be something intuitively wrong, or unjust, about these punishments. And it would seem that this intuition can only find support in a retributive conception of punishment, under which certain types of punishments are inherently more appropriate than others. The notion of appropriateness is absent from the first rationale, which could conceivably allow for any sort of punishment as long as it benefits society. Retributive considerations, on the other hand, allow for proportionality between punishments and crimes. This is what fuels our notion of just (as opposed to beneficial) punishment. However, it can be argued that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment is based on our sense that such a punishment is more harmful to the criminal than beneficial to society; and, similarly, that our intuition that a punishment is just is based on our sense that this punishment fairly balances societal benefit against harm to the criminal. In this way the second rationale can be seen as grounded in the first and its retributive nature disappears. Thus it seems that even our so-called intuitive notions of the appropriateness of punishments have their basis in the concept of benefit.

199902_3-RC_2_12

It can be inferred from the passage that the author would be most likely to agree with which one of the following characterizations of the second rationale for punishing criminals?

Many of us can conceive of penalties that seem disproportionate to the crimes they are intended to punish. A sentence of probation for a person convicted of a brutal murder is one example of such an imbalance. At the other extreme is a sentence of twenty years in prison for shoplifting. But what is the source of these commonsense intuitions about the appropriateness of punishments? There are two main rationales for punishing criminals. The first rationale justifies a punishment in terms of its benefit to society. Society is said to benefit whenever the fear of punishment deters a person from committing a crime, or when a convicted criminal is removed from contact with society at large. The second rationale is that a punishment is justified by the severity of the crime, independent of any benefit to society. This rationale is controversial because some find it difficult to see how a punishment can be justified if it brings no societal benefit; without such benefit, punishment would appear to be little more than retribution. But from the retributivist point of view, the question to be asked about punishment is not whether it is beneficial, but whether it is just—that is, appropriate. One problem with the social-benefit rationale is that it is possible that very harsh penalties even for minor offenses may have great benefit to society. For example, if shoplifters faced twenty-year jail sentences, shoplifting might be deterred. Yet something leads us to say that in such cases the penalty far outweighs the crime. That is, there appears to be something intuitively wrong, or unjust, about these punishments. And it would seem that this intuition can only find support in a retributive conception of punishment, under which certain types of punishments are inherently more appropriate than others. The notion of appropriateness is absent from the first rationale, which could conceivably allow for any sort of punishment as long as it benefits society. Retributive considerations, on the other hand, allow for proportionality between punishments and crimes. This is what fuels our notion of just (as opposed to beneficial) punishment. However, it can be argued that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment is based on our sense that such a punishment is more harmful to the criminal than beneficial to society; and, similarly, that our intuition that a punishment is just is based on our sense that this punishment fairly balances societal benefit against harm to the criminal. In this way the second rationale can be seen as grounded in the first and its retributive nature disappears. Thus it seems that even our so-called intuitive notions of the appropriateness of punishments have their basis in the concept of benefit.

199902_3-RC_2_13

As expressed in the passage, the author's attitude toward very harsh penalties for minor offenses is most accurately described as

Many of us can conceive of penalties that seem disproportionate to the crimes they are intended to punish. A sentence of probation for a person convicted of a brutal murder is one example of such an imbalance. At the other extreme is a sentence of twenty years in prison for shoplifting. But what is the source of these commonsense intuitions about the appropriateness of punishments? There are two main rationales for punishing criminals. The first rationale justifies a punishment in terms of its benefit to society. Society is said to benefit whenever the fear of punishment deters a person from committing a crime, or when a convicted criminal is removed from contact with society at large. The second rationale is that a punishment is justified by the severity of the crime, independent of any benefit to society. This rationale is controversial because some find it difficult to see how a punishment can be justified if it brings no societal benefit; without such benefit, punishment would appear to be little more than retribution. But from the retributivist point of view, the question to be asked about punishment is not whether it is beneficial, but whether it is just—that is, appropriate. One problem with the social-benefit rationale is that it is possible that very harsh penalties even for minor offenses may have great benefit to society. For example, if shoplifters faced twenty-year jail sentences, shoplifting might be deterred. Yet something leads us to say that in such cases the penalty far outweighs the crime. That is, there appears to be something intuitively wrong, or unjust, about these punishments. And it would seem that this intuition can only find support in a retributive conception of punishment, under which certain types of punishments are inherently more appropriate than others. The notion of appropriateness is absent from the first rationale, which could conceivably allow for any sort of punishment as long as it benefits society. Retributive considerations, on the other hand, allow for proportionality between punishments and crimes. This is what fuels our notion of just (as opposed to beneficial) punishment. However, it can be argued that our intuition of the injustice of an overly harsh punishment is based on our sense that such a punishment is more harmful to the criminal than beneficial to society; and, similarly, that our intuition that a punishment is just is based on our sense that this punishment fairly balances societal benefit against harm to the criminal. In this way the second rationale can be seen as grounded in the first and its retributive nature disappears. Thus it seems that even our so-called intuitive notions of the appropriateness of punishments have their basis in the concept of benefit.

199902_3-RC_2_14

As described in the second paragraph, the second rationale for punishing criminals is most consistent with which one of the following principles?

Despite the great differences among the cultures from which we spring, there is a trait shared by many Hispanic-American writers: the use of a European language, Spanish, transplanted to the Western hemisphere. This fact has marked our literature profoundly and radically. We Hispanic Americans who write in Spanish have attempted from the beginning to break the ties of dependency that linked us with the literature of Spain. We have pursued this goal of ever-increasing independence through a twofold movement, seeking to adopt the literary forms and styles in vogue in other European and North American literatures, and endeavoring to describe the nature of the United States and give voice to the Hispanic peoples who live there. These often conflicting tactics can be described as cosmopolitanism and nativism, respectively. The opposition between cosmopolitanism and nativism has divided the Hispanic-American literary consciousness for generations. For example, the work of one Mexican-American novelist was praised by some Hispanic-American critics for its skillful adaptation of European literary techniques but criticized for its paucity of specifically Mexican-American settings or characters. On the other hand, a Cuban-American novel was admired by other Hispanic-American critics for the vivid portrayal of its characters' daily lives but faulted for its "roughness" of form and language. Cosmopolitanism is the venturing forth into the public or mainstream culture; nativism, the return to the private or original culture. There are periods in which the outward-oriented sensibility predominates, and others in which tendencies toward self-absorption and introspection prevail. An example of the former was the rich period of the avant-garde between 1918 and 1930. This was a time of searching and experimentation, when successive European movements from expressionism to surrealism— movements that were also inspiring other North American writers—had profound influence on many Hispanic-American poets and novelists. This phase, which produced a number of outstanding works of exceptional boldness of expression, was followed by another characterized by a return to our peoples and our colloquial dialects, by the creation of works less indebted to current trends in the mainstream culture. Throughout our history, a concern for novelty and experimentation has been followed by a return to origins. We contemporary Hispanic-American writers who write in Spanish live somewhere between the European tradition and the reality of the Americas. Our roots may be European, but our horizon is the land and history of the Americas. This is the challenge that we confront each day: in order to appreciate the value of one's own culture, one must first venture forth into the public sphere; in order not to disappear into the mainstream, one must return to one's origins. In this way, we attempt to reconcile the opposing tendencies of cosmopolitanism and nativism.

199902_3-RC_3_15

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

Despite the great differences among the cultures from which we spring, there is a trait shared by many Hispanic-American writers: the use of a European language, Spanish, transplanted to the Western hemisphere. This fact has marked our literature profoundly and radically. We Hispanic Americans who write in Spanish have attempted from the beginning to break the ties of dependency that linked us with the literature of Spain. We have pursued this goal of ever-increasing independence through a twofold movement, seeking to adopt the literary forms and styles in vogue in other European and North American literatures, and endeavoring to describe the nature of the United States and give voice to the Hispanic peoples who live there. These often conflicting tactics can be described as cosmopolitanism and nativism, respectively. The opposition between cosmopolitanism and nativism has divided the Hispanic-American literary consciousness for generations. For example, the work of one Mexican-American novelist was praised by some Hispanic-American critics for its skillful adaptation of European literary techniques but criticized for its paucity of specifically Mexican-American settings or characters. On the other hand, a Cuban-American novel was admired by other Hispanic-American critics for the vivid portrayal of its characters' daily lives but faulted for its "roughness" of form and language. Cosmopolitanism is the venturing forth into the public or mainstream culture; nativism, the return to the private or original culture. There are periods in which the outward-oriented sensibility predominates, and others in which tendencies toward self-absorption and introspection prevail. An example of the former was the rich period of the avant-garde between 1918 and 1930. This was a time of searching and experimentation, when successive European movements from expressionism to surrealism— movements that were also inspiring other North American writers—had profound influence on many Hispanic-American poets and novelists. This phase, which produced a number of outstanding works of exceptional boldness of expression, was followed by another characterized by a return to our peoples and our colloquial dialects, by the creation of works less indebted to current trends in the mainstream culture. Throughout our history, a concern for novelty and experimentation has been followed by a return to origins. We contemporary Hispanic-American writers who write in Spanish live somewhere between the European tradition and the reality of the Americas. Our roots may be European, but our horizon is the land and history of the Americas. This is the challenge that we confront each day: in order to appreciate the value of one's own culture, one must first venture forth into the public sphere; in order not to disappear into the mainstream, one must return to one's origins. In this way, we attempt to reconcile the opposing tendencies of cosmopolitanism and nativism.

199902_3-RC_3_16

According to the passage, many of the Hispanic-American literary works produced between 1918 and 1930 were especially notable for their

Despite the great differences among the cultures from which we spring, there is a trait shared by many Hispanic-American writers: the use of a European language, Spanish, transplanted to the Western hemisphere. This fact has marked our literature profoundly and radically. We Hispanic Americans who write in Spanish have attempted from the beginning to break the ties of dependency that linked us with the literature of Spain. We have pursued this goal of ever-increasing independence through a twofold movement, seeking to adopt the literary forms and styles in vogue in other European and North American literatures, and endeavoring to describe the nature of the United States and give voice to the Hispanic peoples who live there. These often conflicting tactics can be described as cosmopolitanism and nativism, respectively. The opposition between cosmopolitanism and nativism has divided the Hispanic-American literary consciousness for generations. For example, the work of one Mexican-American novelist was praised by some Hispanic-American critics for its skillful adaptation of European literary techniques but criticized for its paucity of specifically Mexican-American settings or characters. On the other hand, a Cuban-American novel was admired by other Hispanic-American critics for the vivid portrayal of its characters' daily lives but faulted for its "roughness" of form and language. Cosmopolitanism is the venturing forth into the public or mainstream culture; nativism, the return to the private or original culture. There are periods in which the outward-oriented sensibility predominates, and others in which tendencies toward self-absorption and introspection prevail. An example of the former was the rich period of the avant-garde between 1918 and 1930. This was a time of searching and experimentation, when successive European movements from expressionism to surrealism— movements that were also inspiring other North American writers—had profound influence on many Hispanic-American poets and novelists. This phase, which produced a number of outstanding works of exceptional boldness of expression, was followed by another characterized by a return to our peoples and our colloquial dialects, by the creation of works less indebted to current trends in the mainstream culture. Throughout our history, a concern for novelty and experimentation has been followed by a return to origins. We contemporary Hispanic-American writers who write in Spanish live somewhere between the European tradition and the reality of the Americas. Our roots may be European, but our horizon is the land and history of the Americas. This is the challenge that we confront each day: in order to appreciate the value of one's own culture, one must first venture forth into the public sphere; in order not to disappear into the mainstream, one must return to one's origins. In this way, we attempt to reconcile the opposing tendencies of cosmopolitanism and nativism.

199902_3-RC_3_17

According to the passage, the nativist tendency represents an attempt to

Despite the great differences among the cultures from which we spring, there is a trait shared by many Hispanic-American writers: the use of a European language, Spanish, transplanted to the Western hemisphere. This fact has marked our literature profoundly and radically. We Hispanic Americans who write in Spanish have attempted from the beginning to break the ties of dependency that linked us with the literature of Spain. We have pursued this goal of ever-increasing independence through a twofold movement, seeking to adopt the literary forms and styles in vogue in other European and North American literatures, and endeavoring to describe the nature of the United States and give voice to the Hispanic peoples who live there. These often conflicting tactics can be described as cosmopolitanism and nativism, respectively. The opposition between cosmopolitanism and nativism has divided the Hispanic-American literary consciousness for generations. For example, the work of one Mexican-American novelist was praised by some Hispanic-American critics for its skillful adaptation of European literary techniques but criticized for its paucity of specifically Mexican-American settings or characters. On the other hand, a Cuban-American novel was admired by other Hispanic-American critics for the vivid portrayal of its characters' daily lives but faulted for its "roughness" of form and language. Cosmopolitanism is the venturing forth into the public or mainstream culture; nativism, the return to the private or original culture. There are periods in which the outward-oriented sensibility predominates, and others in which tendencies toward self-absorption and introspection prevail. An example of the former was the rich period of the avant-garde between 1918 and 1930. This was a time of searching and experimentation, when successive European movements from expressionism to surrealism— movements that were also inspiring other North American writers—had profound influence on many Hispanic-American poets and novelists. This phase, which produced a number of outstanding works of exceptional boldness of expression, was followed by another characterized by a return to our peoples and our colloquial dialects, by the creation of works less indebted to current trends in the mainstream culture. Throughout our history, a concern for novelty and experimentation has been followed by a return to origins. We contemporary Hispanic-American writers who write in Spanish live somewhere between the European tradition and the reality of the Americas. Our roots may be European, but our horizon is the land and history of the Americas. This is the challenge that we confront each day: in order to appreciate the value of one's own culture, one must first venture forth into the public sphere; in order not to disappear into the mainstream, one must return to one's origins. In this way, we attempt to reconcile the opposing tendencies of cosmopolitanism and nativism.

199902_3-RC_3_18

It can be inferred from the passage that the Hispanic-American literature written in Spanish in the period immediately following 1930 was most likely characterized by