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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_19

The author of the passage suggests that contemporary Hispanic-American writers who write in Spanish are

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_20

Based on the passage, the author's attitude toward nativism in Hispanic-American literature is most likely

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_21

The primary purpose of the passage is to

In the past, students of Renaissance women's education extolled the unprecedented intellectual liberty and equality available to these women, but recently scholars have presented a different view of Renaissance education and opportunity for women. Joan Gibson argues that despite more widespread education for privileged classes of women, Renaissance educational reforms also increased restrictions on women. Humanist education in the Renaissance was based on the classical division of the liberal arts into seven categories, including the three language arts: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric. Although medieval monastic education, also based on the classical division, had stressed grammar and languages in preparation for a life devoted to meditation on religious literature, humanist education revived the classical emphasis on rhetoric—the art of persuasive and declamatory speech—in the context of training for public service in legal and political debate. All students began with elementary study of grammar and progressed to stylistics and literary criticism. But rhetorical training, which was increasingly undertaken only at the university level, could lead in different directions—to study of composition and oral expression or to study of persuasion, in conjunction with a dialectic concerned with broad principles of logic and argumentation. Male students routinely learned material through rhetorical, argumentative role-playing, and although many Renaissance authors expressed horror at their aggressive wrangling, such combativeness was thought still less appropriate for women, who were not supposed to need such preparation for public life. Thus, humanist education for women encompassed literary grammatical studies in both classical and vernacular languages, while dialectic and rhetoric, the disciplines required for philosophy, politics, and the professions, were prohibited to women. Even princesses lacked instruction in political philosophy or the exercise of such public virtues as philanthropy. The prevailing attitude was that girls needed only a generalist education conducted in a family setting and directed toward private enjoyment and the eventual teaching of very young children. Unlike either dialectic or rhetoric, grammar training cast students in the role of an audience, striving to understand authors and teachers. Women were to form an audience, not seek one; for them, instruction in speaking was confined to books of courtesy. The coupling of expanded linguistic and literary education for women with the lack of available social roles for educated women led to uneasy resolutions: exceptionally learned women were labeled as preternatural or essentially masculine, or were praised as virtuous only if they were too modest to make their accomplishments public. Some Italian humanist women gave fashionable oratorical performances, but these were ceremonial in nature rather than designed to influence public affairs. Renaissance women educated along humanist lines did not tend to write works of philosophy; instead they became most notable for literary achievements, particularly translations, poetry and tales in the vernacular or correspondence and orations in Latin.

199902_3-RC_4_22

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

In the past, students of Renaissance women's education extolled the unprecedented intellectual liberty and equality available to these women, but recently scholars have presented a different view of Renaissance education and opportunity for women. Joan Gibson argues that despite more widespread education for privileged classes of women, Renaissance educational reforms also increased restrictions on women. Humanist education in the Renaissance was based on the classical division of the liberal arts into seven categories, including the three language arts: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric. Although medieval monastic education, also based on the classical division, had stressed grammar and languages in preparation for a life devoted to meditation on religious literature, humanist education revived the classical emphasis on rhetoric—the art of persuasive and declamatory speech—in the context of training for public service in legal and political debate. All students began with elementary study of grammar and progressed to stylistics and literary criticism. But rhetorical training, which was increasingly undertaken only at the university level, could lead in different directions—to study of composition and oral expression or to study of persuasion, in conjunction with a dialectic concerned with broad principles of logic and argumentation. Male students routinely learned material through rhetorical, argumentative role-playing, and although many Renaissance authors expressed horror at their aggressive wrangling, such combativeness was thought still less appropriate for women, who were not supposed to need such preparation for public life. Thus, humanist education for women encompassed literary grammatical studies in both classical and vernacular languages, while dialectic and rhetoric, the disciplines required for philosophy, politics, and the professions, were prohibited to women. Even princesses lacked instruction in political philosophy or the exercise of such public virtues as philanthropy. The prevailing attitude was that girls needed only a generalist education conducted in a family setting and directed toward private enjoyment and the eventual teaching of very young children. Unlike either dialectic or rhetoric, grammar training cast students in the role of an audience, striving to understand authors and teachers. Women were to form an audience, not seek one; for them, instruction in speaking was confined to books of courtesy. The coupling of expanded linguistic and literary education for women with the lack of available social roles for educated women led to uneasy resolutions: exceptionally learned women were labeled as preternatural or essentially masculine, or were praised as virtuous only if they were too modest to make their accomplishments public. Some Italian humanist women gave fashionable oratorical performances, but these were ceremonial in nature rather than designed to influence public affairs. Renaissance women educated along humanist lines did not tend to write works of philosophy; instead they became most notable for literary achievements, particularly translations, poetry and tales in the vernacular or correspondence and orations in Latin.

199902_3-RC_4_23

Each of the following aspects of Renaissance humanist education is mentioned in the passage EXCEPT:

In the past, students of Renaissance women's education extolled the unprecedented intellectual liberty and equality available to these women, but recently scholars have presented a different view of Renaissance education and opportunity for women. Joan Gibson argues that despite more widespread education for privileged classes of women, Renaissance educational reforms also increased restrictions on women. Humanist education in the Renaissance was based on the classical division of the liberal arts into seven categories, including the three language arts: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric. Although medieval monastic education, also based on the classical division, had stressed grammar and languages in preparation for a life devoted to meditation on religious literature, humanist education revived the classical emphasis on rhetoric—the art of persuasive and declamatory speech—in the context of training for public service in legal and political debate. All students began with elementary study of grammar and progressed to stylistics and literary criticism. But rhetorical training, which was increasingly undertaken only at the university level, could lead in different directions—to study of composition and oral expression or to study of persuasion, in conjunction with a dialectic concerned with broad principles of logic and argumentation. Male students routinely learned material through rhetorical, argumentative role-playing, and although many Renaissance authors expressed horror at their aggressive wrangling, such combativeness was thought still less appropriate for women, who were not supposed to need such preparation for public life. Thus, humanist education for women encompassed literary grammatical studies in both classical and vernacular languages, while dialectic and rhetoric, the disciplines required for philosophy, politics, and the professions, were prohibited to women. Even princesses lacked instruction in political philosophy or the exercise of such public virtues as philanthropy. The prevailing attitude was that girls needed only a generalist education conducted in a family setting and directed toward private enjoyment and the eventual teaching of very young children. Unlike either dialectic or rhetoric, grammar training cast students in the role of an audience, striving to understand authors and teachers. Women were to form an audience, not seek one; for them, instruction in speaking was confined to books of courtesy. The coupling of expanded linguistic and literary education for women with the lack of available social roles for educated women led to uneasy resolutions: exceptionally learned women were labeled as preternatural or essentially masculine, or were praised as virtuous only if they were too modest to make their accomplishments public. Some Italian humanist women gave fashionable oratorical performances, but these were ceremonial in nature rather than designed to influence public affairs. Renaissance women educated along humanist lines did not tend to write works of philosophy; instead they became most notable for literary achievements, particularly translations, poetry and tales in the vernacular or correspondence and orations in Latin.

199902_3-RC_4_24

Which one of the following statements about women's roles during the Renaissance can be inferred from information given in the passage?

In the past, students of Renaissance women's education extolled the unprecedented intellectual liberty and equality available to these women, but recently scholars have presented a different view of Renaissance education and opportunity for women. Joan Gibson argues that despite more widespread education for privileged classes of women, Renaissance educational reforms also increased restrictions on women. Humanist education in the Renaissance was based on the classical division of the liberal arts into seven categories, including the three language arts: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric. Although medieval monastic education, also based on the classical division, had stressed grammar and languages in preparation for a life devoted to meditation on religious literature, humanist education revived the classical emphasis on rhetoric—the art of persuasive and declamatory speech—in the context of training for public service in legal and political debate. All students began with elementary study of grammar and progressed to stylistics and literary criticism. But rhetorical training, which was increasingly undertaken only at the university level, could lead in different directions—to study of composition and oral expression or to study of persuasion, in conjunction with a dialectic concerned with broad principles of logic and argumentation. Male students routinely learned material through rhetorical, argumentative role-playing, and although many Renaissance authors expressed horror at their aggressive wrangling, such combativeness was thought still less appropriate for women, who were not supposed to need such preparation for public life. Thus, humanist education for women encompassed literary grammatical studies in both classical and vernacular languages, while dialectic and rhetoric, the disciplines required for philosophy, politics, and the professions, were prohibited to women. Even princesses lacked instruction in political philosophy or the exercise of such public virtues as philanthropy. The prevailing attitude was that girls needed only a generalist education conducted in a family setting and directed toward private enjoyment and the eventual teaching of very young children. Unlike either dialectic or rhetoric, grammar training cast students in the role of an audience, striving to understand authors and teachers. Women were to form an audience, not seek one; for them, instruction in speaking was confined to books of courtesy. The coupling of expanded linguistic and literary education for women with the lack of available social roles for educated women led to uneasy resolutions: exceptionally learned women were labeled as preternatural or essentially masculine, or were praised as virtuous only if they were too modest to make their accomplishments public. Some Italian humanist women gave fashionable oratorical performances, but these were ceremonial in nature rather than designed to influence public affairs. Renaissance women educated along humanist lines did not tend to write works of philosophy; instead they became most notable for literary achievements, particularly translations, poetry and tales in the vernacular or correspondence and orations in Latin.

199902_3-RC_4_25

Which one of the following, if true, would most weaken the distinction between training in grammar and training in dialectic and rhetoric that is drawn in lines 44–47 of the passage?

In the past, students of Renaissance women's education extolled the unprecedented intellectual liberty and equality available to these women, but recently scholars have presented a different view of Renaissance education and opportunity for women. Joan Gibson argues that despite more widespread education for privileged classes of women, Renaissance educational reforms also increased restrictions on women. Humanist education in the Renaissance was based on the classical division of the liberal arts into seven categories, including the three language arts: grammar, dialectic, and rhetoric. Although medieval monastic education, also based on the classical division, had stressed grammar and languages in preparation for a life devoted to meditation on religious literature, humanist education revived the classical emphasis on rhetoric—the art of persuasive and declamatory speech—in the context of training for public service in legal and political debate. All students began with elementary study of grammar and progressed to stylistics and literary criticism. But rhetorical training, which was increasingly undertaken only at the university level, could lead in different directions—to study of composition and oral expression or to study of persuasion, in conjunction with a dialectic concerned with broad principles of logic and argumentation. Male students routinely learned material through rhetorical, argumentative role-playing, and although many Renaissance authors expressed horror at their aggressive wrangling, such combativeness was thought still less appropriate for women, who were not supposed to need such preparation for public life. Thus, humanist education for women encompassed literary grammatical studies in both classical and vernacular languages, while dialectic and rhetoric, the disciplines required for philosophy, politics, and the professions, were prohibited to women. Even princesses lacked instruction in political philosophy or the exercise of such public virtues as philanthropy. The prevailing attitude was that girls needed only a generalist education conducted in a family setting and directed toward private enjoyment and the eventual teaching of very young children. Unlike either dialectic or rhetoric, grammar training cast students in the role of an audience, striving to understand authors and teachers. Women were to form an audience, not seek one; for them, instruction in speaking was confined to books of courtesy. The coupling of expanded linguistic and literary education for women with the lack of available social roles for educated women led to uneasy resolutions: exceptionally learned women were labeled as preternatural or essentially masculine, or were praised as virtuous only if they were too modest to make their accomplishments public. Some Italian humanist women gave fashionable oratorical performances, but these were ceremonial in nature rather than designed to influence public affairs. Renaissance women educated along humanist lines did not tend to write works of philosophy; instead they became most notable for literary achievements, particularly translations, poetry and tales in the vernacular or correspondence and orations in Latin.

199902_3-RC_4_26

Which one of the following situations is most analogous to the one introduced in the second sentence of the passage?

Some Native American tribes have had difficulty establishing their land claims because the United States government did not recognize their status as tribes; therefore during the 1970's some Native Americans attempted to obtain such recognition through the medium of U.S. courts. In presenting these suits, Native Americans had to operate within a particular sphere of U.S. government procedure, that of its legal system, and their arguments were necessarily interpreted by the courts in terms the law could understand: e.g., through application of precedent or review of evidence. This process brought to light some of the differing perceptions and definitions that can exist between cultures whose systems of discourse are sometimes at variance. In one instance, the entire legal dispute turned on whether the suing community—a group of Mashpee Wampanoag in the town of Mashpee, Massachusetts— constituted a tribes. The area had long been occupied by the Mashpee, who continued to have control over land use after the town's incorporation. But in the 1960's after an influx of non-Mashpee people shifted the balance of political power in the town, the new residents were able to buy Mashpee-controlled land from the town and develop it for commercial or private use. The Mashpee's 1976 suit claimed that these lands were taken in violation of a statute prohibiting transfers of land from any tribes of Native Americans without federal approval. The town argued that the Mashpee were not a tribes in the sense intended by the statute and so were outside its protection. As a result, the Mashpee were continued to have required to demonstrate as a tribes according to a definition contained in an earlier ruling: a body of Native Americans "governing themselves under one leadership and inhabiting a particular territory." The town claimed that the Mashpee were not self-governing and that they had no defined territory: the Mashpee could legally be self-governing, the town argued, only if they could show written documentation of such a system, and could legally inhabit territory only if they had precisely delineated its boundaries and possessed a deed to it. The Mashpee marshaled oral testimony against these claims, arguing that what the town perceived as a lack of evidence was simply information that an oral culture such as the Mashpee's would not have recorded in writing. In this instance, the disjunction between U.S. legal discourse and Mashpee culture—exemplified in the court's inability to "understand" the Mashpee's oral testimony as documentary evidence—rendered the suit unsuccessful. Similar claims have recently met with greater success, however, as U.S. courts have begun to acknowledge that the failure to accommodate differences in discourse between cultures can sometimes stand in the way of guaranteeing the fairness of legal decisions.

199906_4-RC_1_1

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

Some Native American tribes have had difficulty establishing their land claims because the United States government did not recognize their status as tribes; therefore during the 1970's some Native Americans attempted to obtain such recognition through the medium of U.S. courts. In presenting these suits, Native Americans had to operate within a particular sphere of U.S. government procedure, that of its legal system, and their arguments were necessarily interpreted by the courts in terms the law could understand: e.g., through application of precedent or review of evidence. This process brought to light some of the differing perceptions and definitions that can exist between cultures whose systems of discourse are sometimes at variance. In one instance, the entire legal dispute turned on whether the suing community—a group of Mashpee Wampanoag in the town of Mashpee, Massachusetts— constituted a tribes. The area had long been occupied by the Mashpee, who continued to have control over land use after the town's incorporation. But in the 1960's after an influx of non-Mashpee people shifted the balance of political power in the town, the new residents were able to buy Mashpee-controlled land from the town and develop it for commercial or private use. The Mashpee's 1976 suit claimed that these lands were taken in violation of a statute prohibiting transfers of land from any tribes of Native Americans without federal approval. The town argued that the Mashpee were not a tribes in the sense intended by the statute and so were outside its protection. As a result, the Mashpee were continued to have required to demonstrate as a tribes according to a definition contained in an earlier ruling: a body of Native Americans "governing themselves under one leadership and inhabiting a particular territory." The town claimed that the Mashpee were not self-governing and that they had no defined territory: the Mashpee could legally be self-governing, the town argued, only if they could show written documentation of such a system, and could legally inhabit territory only if they had precisely delineated its boundaries and possessed a deed to it. The Mashpee marshaled oral testimony against these claims, arguing that what the town perceived as a lack of evidence was simply information that an oral culture such as the Mashpee's would not have recorded in writing. In this instance, the disjunction between U.S. legal discourse and Mashpee culture—exemplified in the court's inability to "understand" the Mashpee's oral testimony as documentary evidence—rendered the suit unsuccessful. Similar claims have recently met with greater success, however, as U.S. courts have begun to acknowledge that the failure to accommodate differences in discourse between cultures can sometimes stand in the way of guaranteeing the fairness of legal decisions.

199906_4-RC_1_2

According to the passage, the Mashpee's lawsuit was based on their objection to

Some Native American tribes have had difficulty establishing their land claims because the United States government did not recognize their status as tribes; therefore during the 1970's some Native Americans attempted to obtain such recognition through the medium of U.S. courts. In presenting these suits, Native Americans had to operate within a particular sphere of U.S. government procedure, that of its legal system, and their arguments were necessarily interpreted by the courts in terms the law could understand: e.g., through application of precedent or review of evidence. This process brought to light some of the differing perceptions and definitions that can exist between cultures whose systems of discourse are sometimes at variance. In one instance, the entire legal dispute turned on whether the suing community—a group of Mashpee Wampanoag in the town of Mashpee, Massachusetts— constituted a tribes. The area had long been occupied by the Mashpee, who continued to have control over land use after the town's incorporation. But in the 1960's after an influx of non-Mashpee people shifted the balance of political power in the town, the new residents were able to buy Mashpee-controlled land from the town and develop it for commercial or private use. The Mashpee's 1976 suit claimed that these lands were taken in violation of a statute prohibiting transfers of land from any tribes of Native Americans without federal approval. The town argued that the Mashpee were not a tribes in the sense intended by the statute and so were outside its protection. As a result, the Mashpee were continued to have required to demonstrate as a tribes according to a definition contained in an earlier ruling: a body of Native Americans "governing themselves under one leadership and inhabiting a particular territory." The town claimed that the Mashpee were not self-governing and that they had no defined territory: the Mashpee could legally be self-governing, the town argued, only if they could show written documentation of such a system, and could legally inhabit territory only if they had precisely delineated its boundaries and possessed a deed to it. The Mashpee marshaled oral testimony against these claims, arguing that what the town perceived as a lack of evidence was simply information that an oral culture such as the Mashpee's would not have recorded in writing. In this instance, the disjunction between U.S. legal discourse and Mashpee culture—exemplified in the court's inability to "understand" the Mashpee's oral testimony as documentary evidence—rendered the suit unsuccessful. Similar claims have recently met with greater success, however, as U.S. courts have begun to acknowledge that the failure to accommodate differences in discourse between cultures can sometimes stand in the way of guaranteeing the fairness of legal decisions.

199906_4-RC_1_3

The author's attitude toward the court's decision in the Mashpee's lawsuit is most clearly revealed by the author's use of which one of the following phrases?

Some Native American tribes have had difficulty establishing their land claims because the United States government did not recognize their status as tribes; therefore during the 1970's some Native Americans attempted to obtain such recognition through the medium of U.S. courts. In presenting these suits, Native Americans had to operate within a particular sphere of U.S. government procedure, that of its legal system, and their arguments were necessarily interpreted by the courts in terms the law could understand: e.g., through application of precedent or review of evidence. This process brought to light some of the differing perceptions and definitions that can exist between cultures whose systems of discourse are sometimes at variance. In one instance, the entire legal dispute turned on whether the suing community—a group of Mashpee Wampanoag in the town of Mashpee, Massachusetts— constituted a tribes. The area had long been occupied by the Mashpee, who continued to have control over land use after the town's incorporation. But in the 1960's after an influx of non-Mashpee people shifted the balance of political power in the town, the new residents were able to buy Mashpee-controlled land from the town and develop it for commercial or private use. The Mashpee's 1976 suit claimed that these lands were taken in violation of a statute prohibiting transfers of land from any tribes of Native Americans without federal approval. The town argued that the Mashpee were not a tribes in the sense intended by the statute and so were outside its protection. As a result, the Mashpee were continued to have required to demonstrate as a tribes according to a definition contained in an earlier ruling: a body of Native Americans "governing themselves under one leadership and inhabiting a particular territory." The town claimed that the Mashpee were not self-governing and that they had no defined territory: the Mashpee could legally be self-governing, the town argued, only if they could show written documentation of such a system, and could legally inhabit territory only if they had precisely delineated its boundaries and possessed a deed to it. The Mashpee marshaled oral testimony against these claims, arguing that what the town perceived as a lack of evidence was simply information that an oral culture such as the Mashpee's would not have recorded in writing. In this instance, the disjunction between U.S. legal discourse and Mashpee culture—exemplified in the court's inability to "understand" the Mashpee's oral testimony as documentary evidence—rendered the suit unsuccessful. Similar claims have recently met with greater success, however, as U.S. courts have begun to acknowledge that the failure to accommodate differences in discourse between cultures can sometimes stand in the way of guaranteeing the fairness of legal decisions.

199906_4-RC_1_4

Based on the passage, which one of the following can most reasonably be said to have occurred in the years since the Mashpee's lawsuit?

Some Native American tribes have had difficulty establishing their land claims because the United States government did not recognize their status as tribes; therefore during the 1970's some Native Americans attempted to obtain such recognition through the medium of U.S. courts. In presenting these suits, Native Americans had to operate within a particular sphere of U.S. government procedure, that of its legal system, and their arguments were necessarily interpreted by the courts in terms the law could understand: e.g., through application of precedent or review of evidence. This process brought to light some of the differing perceptions and definitions that can exist between cultures whose systems of discourse are sometimes at variance. In one instance, the entire legal dispute turned on whether the suing community—a group of Mashpee Wampanoag in the town of Mashpee, Massachusetts— constituted a tribes. The area had long been occupied by the Mashpee, who continued to have control over land use after the town's incorporation. But in the 1960's after an influx of non-Mashpee people shifted the balance of political power in the town, the new residents were able to buy Mashpee-controlled land from the town and develop it for commercial or private use. The Mashpee's 1976 suit claimed that these lands were taken in violation of a statute prohibiting transfers of land from any tribes of Native Americans without federal approval. The town argued that the Mashpee were not a tribes in the sense intended by the statute and so were outside its protection. As a result, the Mashpee were continued to have required to demonstrate as a tribes according to a definition contained in an earlier ruling: a body of Native Americans "governing themselves under one leadership and inhabiting a particular territory." The town claimed that the Mashpee were not self-governing and that they had no defined territory: the Mashpee could legally be self-governing, the town argued, only if they could show written documentation of such a system, and could legally inhabit territory only if they had precisely delineated its boundaries and possessed a deed to it. The Mashpee marshaled oral testimony against these claims, arguing that what the town perceived as a lack of evidence was simply information that an oral culture such as the Mashpee's would not have recorded in writing. In this instance, the disjunction between U.S. legal discourse and Mashpee culture—exemplified in the court's inability to "understand" the Mashpee's oral testimony as documentary evidence—rendered the suit unsuccessful. Similar claims have recently met with greater success, however, as U.S. courts have begun to acknowledge that the failure to accommodate differences in discourse between cultures can sometimes stand in the way of guaranteeing the fairness of legal decisions.

199906_4-RC_1_5

The passage is primarily concerned with

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_6

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

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_7

Not taking the effects of El Niño into account when figuring the effect of volcanic eruptions on Earth's climate is most closely analogous to not taking into account the

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_8

The passage indicates that each of the following can be an effect of the El Niño phenomenon EXCEPT:

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_9

Which one of the following most accurately characterizes what the author of the passage means by a "minor" volcanic eruption (line 30)?

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_10

To which one of the following situations would the concept of a feedback loop, as it is employed in the passage, be most accurately applied?

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_11

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

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_12

The information in the passage provides the LEAST support for which one of the following claims?

Long after the lava has cooled, the effects of a major volcanic eruption may linger on. In the atmosphere a veil of fine dust and sulfuric acid droplets can spread around the globe and persist for years. Researchers have generally thought that this veil can block enough sunlight to have a chilling influence on Earth's climate. Many blame the cataclysmic eruption of the Indonesian volcano Tambora in 1815 for the ensuing "year without a summer" of 1816—when parts of the northeastern United States and southeastern Canada were hit by snowstorms in June and frosts in August. The volcano-climate connection seems plausible, but, say scientists Clifford Mass and Davit Portman, it is not as strong as previously believed. Mass and Portman analyzed global temperature data for the years before and after nine volcanic eruptions, from Krakatau in 1883 to El Chichón in 1982. In the process they tried to filter out temperature changes caused by the cyclic weather phenomenon known as the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, which warms the sea surface in the equatorial Pacific and thereby warms the atmosphere. Such warming can mask the cooling brought about by an eruption, but it can also mimic volcanic cooling if the volcano happens to erupt just as an El Niño-induced warm period is beginning to fade. Once El Niño effects had been subtracted from the data, the actual effects of the eruptions came through more clearly. Contrary to what earlier studies had suggested, Mass and Portman found that minor eruptions have no discernible effect on temperature. And major, dust-spitting explosions, such as Krakatau or El Chichón, cause a smaller drop than expected in the average temperature in the hemisphere (Northern or Southern) of the eruption—only half a degree centigrade or less—a correspondingly smaller drop in the opposite hemisphere. Other researchers, however, have argued that even a small temperature drop could result in a significant regional fluctuation in climate if its effects were amplified by climatic feedback loops. For example, a small temperature drop in the northeastern U.S. and southeastern Canada in early spring might delay the melting of snow, and the unmelted snow would continue to reflect sunlight away from the surface, amplifying the cooling. The cool air over the region could, in turn, affect the jet stream. The jet stream tends to flow at the boundary between cool northern air and warm southern air, drawing its power from the sharp temperature contrast and the consequent difference in pressure. An unusual cooling in the region could cause the stream to wander farther south than normal, allowing more polar air to come in behind it and deepen the region's cold snap. Through such a series of feedbacks a small temperature drop could be blown up into a year without a summer.

199906_4-RC_2_13

The primary purpose of the last paragraph of the passage is to

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_14

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

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_15

Based on the passage, neoclassical economists would likely hold that steady-state economists are wrong to believe each of the following EXCEPT:

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_16

According to the passage, steady-state economists believe that unlimited economic growth is dangerous because it

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_17

A steady-state economist would be LEAST likely to endorse which one of the following as a means of helping a steady-state economy reduce growth without compromising its ability to satisfy human wants?

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_18

Based on the passage, a steady-state economist is most likely to claim that a successful economy is one that satisfies which one of the following principles?

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_19

In the view of steady-state economists, which one of the following is a noneconomic constraint as referred to in line 7?

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_20

Which one of the following most accurately describes what the last paragraph does in the passage?

Recently, a new school of economics called steady-state economics has seriously challenged neoclassical economics, the reigning school in Western economic decision making. According to the neoclassical model, an economy is a closed system involving only the circular flow of exchange value between producers and consumers. Therefore, no noneconomic constraints impinge upon the economy and growth has no limits. Indeed, some neoclassical economists argue that growth itself is crucial, because, they claim, the solutions to problems often associated with growth (income inequities, for example) can be found only in the capital that further growth creates. Steady-state economists believe the neoclassical model to be unrealistic and hold that the economy is dependent on nature. Resources, they argue, enter the economy as raw material and exit as consumed products or waste; the greater the resources, the greater the size of the economy. According to these economists, nature's limited capacity to regenerate raw material and absorb waste suggests that there is an optimal size for the economy, and that growth beyond this ideal point would increase the cost to the environment at a faster rate than the benefit to producers and consumers, generating cycles that impoverish rather than enrich. Steady-state economists thus believe that the concept of an ever growing economy is dangerous, and that the only alternative is to maintain a state in which the economy remains in equilibrium with nature. Neoclassical economists, on the other hand, consider nature to be just one element of the economy rather than an outside constraint, believing that natural resources, if depleted, can be replaced with other elements—i.e., human-made resources—that will allow the economy to continue with its process of unlimited growth. Some steady-state economists, pointing to the widening disparity between indices of actual growth (which simply count the total monetary value of goods and services) and the index of environmentally sustainable growth (which is based on personal consumption, factoring in depletion of raw materials and production costs), believe that Western economies have already exceeded their optimal size. In response to the warnings from neoclassical economists that checking economic growth only leads to economic stagnation, they argue that there are alternatives to growth that still accomplish what is required of any economy: the satisfaction of human wants. One of the alternatives is conservation. Conservation—for example, increasing the efficiency of resource use through means such as recycling—differs from growth in that it is qualitative, not quantitative, requiring improvement in resource management rather than an increase in the amount of resources. One measure of the success of a steady-state economy would be the degree to which it could implement alternatives to growth, such as conservation, without sacrificing the ability to satisfy the wants of producers and consumers.

199906_4-RC_3_21

The passage suggests which one of the following about neoclassical economists?

As one of the most pervasive and influential popular arts, the movies feed into and off of the rest of the culture in various ways. In the United States, the star system of the mid-1920s—in which actors were placed under exclusive contract to particular Hollywood film studios—was a consequence of studios' discovery that the public was interested in actor's private lives, and that information about actors could be used to promote their films. Public relations agents fed the information to gossip columnists, whetting the public's appetite for the films—which, audiences usually discovered, had the additional virtue of being created by talented writers, directors, and producers devoted to the art of storytelling. The important feature of this relationship was not the benefit to Hollywood, but rather to the press; in what amounted to a form of cultural cross-fertilization, the press saw that they could profit from studios' promotion of new films. Today this arrangement has mushroomed into an intricately interdependent mass-media entertainment industry. The faith by which this industry sustains itself is the belief that there is always something worth promoting. A vast portion of the mass media— television and radio interviews, magazine articles, even product advertisements—now does most of the work for Hollywood studios attempting to promote their movies. It does so not out of altruism but because it makes for good business: If you produce a talk show or edit a newspaper, and other media are generating public curiosity about a studio's forthcoming film, it would be unwise for you not to broadcast or publish something about the film, too, because the audience for your story is already guaranteed. The problem with this industry is that it has begun to affect the creation of films as well as their promotion. Choices of subject matter and actors are made more and more frequently by studio executives rather than by producers, writers, or directors. This problem is often referred to simply as an obsession with turning a profit, but Hollywood movies have almost always been produced to appeal to the largest possible audience. The new danger is that, increasingly, profit comes only from exciting an audience's curiosity about a movie instead of satisfying its desire to have an engaging experience watching the film. When movies can pull people into theaters instantly on the strength of media publicity rather than relying on the more gradual process of word of mouth among satisfied moviegoers, then the intimate relationship with the audience—on which the vitality of all popular art depends—is lost. But studios are making more money than ever by using this formula, and for this reason it appears that films whose appeal is due not merely to their publicity value but to their ability to affect audiences emotionally will become increasingly rare in the U.S. film industry.

199906_4-RC_4_22

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

As one of the most pervasive and influential popular arts, the movies feed into and off of the rest of the culture in various ways. In the United States, the star system of the mid-1920s—in which actors were placed under exclusive contract to particular Hollywood film studios—was a consequence of studios' discovery that the public was interested in actor's private lives, and that information about actors could be used to promote their films. Public relations agents fed the information to gossip columnists, whetting the public's appetite for the films—which, audiences usually discovered, had the additional virtue of being created by talented writers, directors, and producers devoted to the art of storytelling. The important feature of this relationship was not the benefit to Hollywood, but rather to the press; in what amounted to a form of cultural cross-fertilization, the press saw that they could profit from studios' promotion of new films. Today this arrangement has mushroomed into an intricately interdependent mass-media entertainment industry. The faith by which this industry sustains itself is the belief that there is always something worth promoting. A vast portion of the mass media— television and radio interviews, magazine articles, even product advertisements—now does most of the work for Hollywood studios attempting to promote their movies. It does so not out of altruism but because it makes for good business: If you produce a talk show or edit a newspaper, and other media are generating public curiosity about a studio's forthcoming film, it would be unwise for you not to broadcast or publish something about the film, too, because the audience for your story is already guaranteed. The problem with this industry is that it has begun to affect the creation of films as well as their promotion. Choices of subject matter and actors are made more and more frequently by studio executives rather than by producers, writers, or directors. This problem is often referred to simply as an obsession with turning a profit, but Hollywood movies have almost always been produced to appeal to the largest possible audience. The new danger is that, increasingly, profit comes only from exciting an audience's curiosity about a movie instead of satisfying its desire to have an engaging experience watching the film. When movies can pull people into theaters instantly on the strength of media publicity rather than relying on the more gradual process of word of mouth among satisfied moviegoers, then the intimate relationship with the audience—on which the vitality of all popular art depends—is lost. But studios are making more money than ever by using this formula, and for this reason it appears that films whose appeal is due not merely to their publicity value but to their ability to affect audiences emotionally will become increasingly rare in the U.S. film industry.

199906_4-RC_4_23

According to the author, the danger of mass-media promotion of films is that it

As one of the most pervasive and influential popular arts, the movies feed into and off of the rest of the culture in various ways. In the United States, the star system of the mid-1920s—in which actors were placed under exclusive contract to particular Hollywood film studios—was a consequence of studios' discovery that the public was interested in actor's private lives, and that information about actors could be used to promote their films. Public relations agents fed the information to gossip columnists, whetting the public's appetite for the films—which, audiences usually discovered, had the additional virtue of being created by talented writers, directors, and producers devoted to the art of storytelling. The important feature of this relationship was not the benefit to Hollywood, but rather to the press; in what amounted to a form of cultural cross-fertilization, the press saw that they could profit from studios' promotion of new films. Today this arrangement has mushroomed into an intricately interdependent mass-media entertainment industry. The faith by which this industry sustains itself is the belief that there is always something worth promoting. A vast portion of the mass media— television and radio interviews, magazine articles, even product advertisements—now does most of the work for Hollywood studios attempting to promote their movies. It does so not out of altruism but because it makes for good business: If you produce a talk show or edit a newspaper, and other media are generating public curiosity about a studio's forthcoming film, it would be unwise for you not to broadcast or publish something about the film, too, because the audience for your story is already guaranteed. The problem with this industry is that it has begun to affect the creation of films as well as their promotion. Choices of subject matter and actors are made more and more frequently by studio executives rather than by producers, writers, or directors. This problem is often referred to simply as an obsession with turning a profit, but Hollywood movies have almost always been produced to appeal to the largest possible audience. The new danger is that, increasingly, profit comes only from exciting an audience's curiosity about a movie instead of satisfying its desire to have an engaging experience watching the film. When movies can pull people into theaters instantly on the strength of media publicity rather than relying on the more gradual process of word of mouth among satisfied moviegoers, then the intimate relationship with the audience—on which the vitality of all popular art depends—is lost. But studios are making more money than ever by using this formula, and for this reason it appears that films whose appeal is due not merely to their publicity value but to their ability to affect audiences emotionally will become increasingly rare in the U.S. film industry.

199906_4-RC_4_24

The phrase "cultural cross-fertilization" (line 17) is used in the passage to refer to which one of the following?

As one of the most pervasive and influential popular arts, the movies feed into and off of the rest of the culture in various ways. In the United States, the star system of the mid-1920s—in which actors were placed under exclusive contract to particular Hollywood film studios—was a consequence of studios' discovery that the public was interested in actor's private lives, and that information about actors could be used to promote their films. Public relations agents fed the information to gossip columnists, whetting the public's appetite for the films—which, audiences usually discovered, had the additional virtue of being created by talented writers, directors, and producers devoted to the art of storytelling. The important feature of this relationship was not the benefit to Hollywood, but rather to the press; in what amounted to a form of cultural cross-fertilization, the press saw that they could profit from studios' promotion of new films. Today this arrangement has mushroomed into an intricately interdependent mass-media entertainment industry. The faith by which this industry sustains itself is the belief that there is always something worth promoting. A vast portion of the mass media— television and radio interviews, magazine articles, even product advertisements—now does most of the work for Hollywood studios attempting to promote their movies. It does so not out of altruism but because it makes for good business: If you produce a talk show or edit a newspaper, and other media are generating public curiosity about a studio's forthcoming film, it would be unwise for you not to broadcast or publish something about the film, too, because the audience for your story is already guaranteed. The problem with this industry is that it has begun to affect the creation of films as well as their promotion. Choices of subject matter and actors are made more and more frequently by studio executives rather than by producers, writers, or directors. This problem is often referred to simply as an obsession with turning a profit, but Hollywood movies have almost always been produced to appeal to the largest possible audience. The new danger is that, increasingly, profit comes only from exciting an audience's curiosity about a movie instead of satisfying its desire to have an engaging experience watching the film. When movies can pull people into theaters instantly on the strength of media publicity rather than relying on the more gradual process of word of mouth among satisfied moviegoers, then the intimate relationship with the audience—on which the vitality of all popular art depends—is lost. But studios are making more money than ever by using this formula, and for this reason it appears that films whose appeal is due not merely to their publicity value but to their ability to affect audiences emotionally will become increasingly rare in the U.S. film industry.

199906_4-RC_4_25

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

As one of the most pervasive and influential popular arts, the movies feed into and off of the rest of the culture in various ways. In the United States, the star system of the mid-1920s—in which actors were placed under exclusive contract to particular Hollywood film studios—was a consequence of studios' discovery that the public was interested in actor's private lives, and that information about actors could be used to promote their films. Public relations agents fed the information to gossip columnists, whetting the public's appetite for the films—which, audiences usually discovered, had the additional virtue of being created by talented writers, directors, and producers devoted to the art of storytelling. The important feature of this relationship was not the benefit to Hollywood, but rather to the press; in what amounted to a form of cultural cross-fertilization, the press saw that they could profit from studios' promotion of new films. Today this arrangement has mushroomed into an intricately interdependent mass-media entertainment industry. The faith by which this industry sustains itself is the belief that there is always something worth promoting. A vast portion of the mass media— television and radio interviews, magazine articles, even product advertisements—now does most of the work for Hollywood studios attempting to promote their movies. It does so not out of altruism but because it makes for good business: If you produce a talk show or edit a newspaper, and other media are generating public curiosity about a studio's forthcoming film, it would be unwise for you not to broadcast or publish something about the film, too, because the audience for your story is already guaranteed. The problem with this industry is that it has begun to affect the creation of films as well as their promotion. Choices of subject matter and actors are made more and more frequently by studio executives rather than by producers, writers, or directors. This problem is often referred to simply as an obsession with turning a profit, but Hollywood movies have almost always been produced to appeal to the largest possible audience. The new danger is that, increasingly, profit comes only from exciting an audience's curiosity about a movie instead of satisfying its desire to have an engaging experience watching the film. When movies can pull people into theaters instantly on the strength of media publicity rather than relying on the more gradual process of word of mouth among satisfied moviegoers, then the intimate relationship with the audience—on which the vitality of all popular art depends—is lost. But studios are making more money than ever by using this formula, and for this reason it appears that films whose appeal is due not merely to their publicity value but to their ability to affect audiences emotionally will become increasingly rare in the U.S. film industry.

199906_4-RC_4_26

The author's position in lines 35-47 would be most weakened if which one of the following were true?

For some years before the outbreak of World War I, a number of painters in different European countries developed works of art that some have described as prophetic: paintings that by challenging viewers' habitual ways of perceiving the world of the present are thus said to anticipate a future world that would be very different. The artistic styles that they brought into being varied widely, but all these styles had in common a very important break with traditions of representational art that stretched back to the Renaissance. So fundamental is this break with tradition that it is not surprising to discover that these artist—among them Picasso and Braque in France, Kandinsky in Germany, and Malevich in Russia—are often credited with having anticipated not just subsequent developments in the arts, but also the political and social disruptions and upheavals of the modern world that came into being during and after the war. One art critic even goes so far as to claim that it is the very prophetic power of these artworks, and not their break with traditional artistic techniques, that constitutes their chief interest and value. No one will deny that an artist may, just as much as a writer or a politician, speculate about the future and then try to express a vision of that future through making use of a particular style or choice of imagery; speculation about the possibility of war in Europe was certainly widespread during the early years of the twentieth century. But the forward-looking quality attributed to these artists should instead be credited to their exceptional aesthetic innovations rather than to any power to make clever guesses about political or social trends. For example, the clear impression we get of Picasso and Braque, the joint founders of cubism, from their contemporaries as well as from later statements made by the artists themselves, is that they were primarily concerned with problems of representation and form and with efforts to create a far more "real" reality than the one that was accessible only to the eye. The reformation of society was of no interest to them as artists. It is also important to remember that not all decisive changes in art are quickly followed by dramatic events in the world outside art. The case of Delacroix, the nineteenth-century French painter, is revealing. His stylistic innovations startled his contemporaries—and still retain that power over modern viewers—but most art historians have decided that Delacroix adjusted himself to new social conditions that were already coming into being as a result of political upheavals that had occurred in 1830, as opposed to other artists who supposedly told of changes still to come.

199910_2-RC_1_1

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

For some years before the outbreak of World War I, a number of painters in different European countries developed works of art that some have described as prophetic: paintings that by challenging viewers' habitual ways of perceiving the world of the present are thus said to anticipate a future world that would be very different. The artistic styles that they brought into being varied widely, but all these styles had in common a very important break with traditions of representational art that stretched back to the Renaissance. So fundamental is this break with tradition that it is not surprising to discover that these artist—among them Picasso and Braque in France, Kandinsky in Germany, and Malevich in Russia—are often credited with having anticipated not just subsequent developments in the arts, but also the political and social disruptions and upheavals of the modern world that came into being during and after the war. One art critic even goes so far as to claim that it is the very prophetic power of these artworks, and not their break with traditional artistic techniques, that constitutes their chief interest and value. No one will deny that an artist may, just as much as a writer or a politician, speculate about the future and then try to express a vision of that future through making use of a particular style or choice of imagery; speculation about the possibility of war in Europe was certainly widespread during the early years of the twentieth century. But the forward-looking quality attributed to these artists should instead be credited to their exceptional aesthetic innovations rather than to any power to make clever guesses about political or social trends. For example, the clear impression we get of Picasso and Braque, the joint founders of cubism, from their contemporaries as well as from later statements made by the artists themselves, is that they were primarily concerned with problems of representation and form and with efforts to create a far more "real" reality than the one that was accessible only to the eye. The reformation of society was of no interest to them as artists. It is also important to remember that not all decisive changes in art are quickly followed by dramatic events in the world outside art. The case of Delacroix, the nineteenth-century French painter, is revealing. His stylistic innovations startled his contemporaries—and still retain that power over modern viewers—but most art historians have decided that Delacroix adjusted himself to new social conditions that were already coming into being as a result of political upheavals that had occurred in 1830, as opposed to other artists who supposedly told of changes still to come.

199910_2-RC_1_2

The art critic mentioned in lines 19–20 would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements?

For some years before the outbreak of World War I, a number of painters in different European countries developed works of art that some have described as prophetic: paintings that by challenging viewers' habitual ways of perceiving the world of the present are thus said to anticipate a future world that would be very different. The artistic styles that they brought into being varied widely, but all these styles had in common a very important break with traditions of representational art that stretched back to the Renaissance. So fundamental is this break with tradition that it is not surprising to discover that these artist—among them Picasso and Braque in France, Kandinsky in Germany, and Malevich in Russia—are often credited with having anticipated not just subsequent developments in the arts, but also the political and social disruptions and upheavals of the modern world that came into being during and after the war. One art critic even goes so far as to claim that it is the very prophetic power of these artworks, and not their break with traditional artistic techniques, that constitutes their chief interest and value. No one will deny that an artist may, just as much as a writer or a politician, speculate about the future and then try to express a vision of that future through making use of a particular style or choice of imagery; speculation about the possibility of war in Europe was certainly widespread during the early years of the twentieth century. But the forward-looking quality attributed to these artists should instead be credited to their exceptional aesthetic innovations rather than to any power to make clever guesses about political or social trends. For example, the clear impression we get of Picasso and Braque, the joint founders of cubism, from their contemporaries as well as from later statements made by the artists themselves, is that they were primarily concerned with problems of representation and form and with efforts to create a far more "real" reality than the one that was accessible only to the eye. The reformation of society was of no interest to them as artists. It is also important to remember that not all decisive changes in art are quickly followed by dramatic events in the world outside art. The case of Delacroix, the nineteenth-century French painter, is revealing. His stylistic innovations startled his contemporaries—and still retain that power over modern viewers—but most art historians have decided that Delacroix adjusted himself to new social conditions that were already coming into being as a result of political upheavals that had occurred in 1830, as opposed to other artists who supposedly told of changes still to come.

199910_2-RC_1_3

According to the passage, the statements of Picasso and Braque indicate that

For some years before the outbreak of World War I, a number of painters in different European countries developed works of art that some have described as prophetic: paintings that by challenging viewers' habitual ways of perceiving the world of the present are thus said to anticipate a future world that would be very different. The artistic styles that they brought into being varied widely, but all these styles had in common a very important break with traditions of representational art that stretched back to the Renaissance. So fundamental is this break with tradition that it is not surprising to discover that these artist—among them Picasso and Braque in France, Kandinsky in Germany, and Malevich in Russia—are often credited with having anticipated not just subsequent developments in the arts, but also the political and social disruptions and upheavals of the modern world that came into being during and after the war. One art critic even goes so far as to claim that it is the very prophetic power of these artworks, and not their break with traditional artistic techniques, that constitutes their chief interest and value. No one will deny that an artist may, just as much as a writer or a politician, speculate about the future and then try to express a vision of that future through making use of a particular style or choice of imagery; speculation about the possibility of war in Europe was certainly widespread during the early years of the twentieth century. But the forward-looking quality attributed to these artists should instead be credited to their exceptional aesthetic innovations rather than to any power to make clever guesses about political or social trends. For example, the clear impression we get of Picasso and Braque, the joint founders of cubism, from their contemporaries as well as from later statements made by the artists themselves, is that they were primarily concerned with problems of representation and form and with efforts to create a far more "real" reality than the one that was accessible only to the eye. The reformation of society was of no interest to them as artists. It is also important to remember that not all decisive changes in art are quickly followed by dramatic events in the world outside art. The case of Delacroix, the nineteenth-century French painter, is revealing. His stylistic innovations startled his contemporaries—and still retain that power over modern viewers—but most art historians have decided that Delacroix adjusted himself to new social conditions that were already coming into being as a result of political upheavals that had occurred in 1830, as opposed to other artists who supposedly told of changes still to come.

199910_2-RC_1_4

The author presents the example of Delacroix in order to illustrate which one of the following claims?

For some years before the outbreak of World War I, a number of painters in different European countries developed works of art that some have described as prophetic: paintings that by challenging viewers' habitual ways of perceiving the world of the present are thus said to anticipate a future world that would be very different. The artistic styles that they brought into being varied widely, but all these styles had in common a very important break with traditions of representational art that stretched back to the Renaissance. So fundamental is this break with tradition that it is not surprising to discover that these artist—among them Picasso and Braque in France, Kandinsky in Germany, and Malevich in Russia—are often credited with having anticipated not just subsequent developments in the arts, but also the political and social disruptions and upheavals of the modern world that came into being during and after the war. One art critic even goes so far as to claim that it is the very prophetic power of these artworks, and not their break with traditional artistic techniques, that constitutes their chief interest and value. No one will deny that an artist may, just as much as a writer or a politician, speculate about the future and then try to express a vision of that future through making use of a particular style or choice of imagery; speculation about the possibility of war in Europe was certainly widespread during the early years of the twentieth century. But the forward-looking quality attributed to these artists should instead be credited to their exceptional aesthetic innovations rather than to any power to make clever guesses about political or social trends. For example, the clear impression we get of Picasso and Braque, the joint founders of cubism, from their contemporaries as well as from later statements made by the artists themselves, is that they were primarily concerned with problems of representation and form and with efforts to create a far more "real" reality than the one that was accessible only to the eye. The reformation of society was of no interest to them as artists. It is also important to remember that not all decisive changes in art are quickly followed by dramatic events in the world outside art. The case of Delacroix, the nineteenth-century French painter, is revealing. His stylistic innovations startled his contemporaries—and still retain that power over modern viewers—but most art historians have decided that Delacroix adjusted himself to new social conditions that were already coming into being as a result of political upheavals that had occurred in 1830, as opposed to other artists who supposedly told of changes still to come.

199910_2-RC_1_5

Which one of the following most accurately describes the contents of the passage?

For some years before the outbreak of World War I, a number of painters in different European countries developed works of art that some have described as prophetic: paintings that by challenging viewers' habitual ways of perceiving the world of the present are thus said to anticipate a future world that would be very different. The artistic styles that they brought into being varied widely, but all these styles had in common a very important break with traditions of representational art that stretched back to the Renaissance. So fundamental is this break with tradition that it is not surprising to discover that these artist—among them Picasso and Braque in France, Kandinsky in Germany, and Malevich in Russia—are often credited with having anticipated not just subsequent developments in the arts, but also the political and social disruptions and upheavals of the modern world that came into being during and after the war. One art critic even goes so far as to claim that it is the very prophetic power of these artworks, and not their break with traditional artistic techniques, that constitutes their chief interest and value. No one will deny that an artist may, just as much as a writer or a politician, speculate about the future and then try to express a vision of that future through making use of a particular style or choice of imagery; speculation about the possibility of war in Europe was certainly widespread during the early years of the twentieth century. But the forward-looking quality attributed to these artists should instead be credited to their exceptional aesthetic innovations rather than to any power to make clever guesses about political or social trends. For example, the clear impression we get of Picasso and Braque, the joint founders of cubism, from their contemporaries as well as from later statements made by the artists themselves, is that they were primarily concerned with problems of representation and form and with efforts to create a far more "real" reality than the one that was accessible only to the eye. The reformation of society was of no interest to them as artists. It is also important to remember that not all decisive changes in art are quickly followed by dramatic events in the world outside art. The case of Delacroix, the nineteenth-century French painter, is revealing. His stylistic innovations startled his contemporaries—and still retain that power over modern viewers—but most art historians have decided that Delacroix adjusted himself to new social conditions that were already coming into being as a result of political upheavals that had occurred in 1830, as opposed to other artists who supposedly told of changes still to come.

199910_2-RC_1_6

According to the author, the work of the pre–World War I painters described in the passage contains an example of each of the following EXCEPT:

For some years before the outbreak of World War I, a number of painters in different European countries developed works of art that some have described as prophetic: paintings that by challenging viewers' habitual ways of perceiving the world of the present are thus said to anticipate a future world that would be very different. The artistic styles that they brought into being varied widely, but all these styles had in common a very important break with traditions of representational art that stretched back to the Renaissance. So fundamental is this break with tradition that it is not surprising to discover that these artist—among them Picasso and Braque in France, Kandinsky in Germany, and Malevich in Russia—are often credited with having anticipated not just subsequent developments in the arts, but also the political and social disruptions and upheavals of the modern world that came into being during and after the war. One art critic even goes so far as to claim that it is the very prophetic power of these artworks, and not their break with traditional artistic techniques, that constitutes their chief interest and value. No one will deny that an artist may, just as much as a writer or a politician, speculate about the future and then try to express a vision of that future through making use of a particular style or choice of imagery; speculation about the possibility of war in Europe was certainly widespread during the early years of the twentieth century. But the forward-looking quality attributed to these artists should instead be credited to their exceptional aesthetic innovations rather than to any power to make clever guesses about political or social trends. For example, the clear impression we get of Picasso and Braque, the joint founders of cubism, from their contemporaries as well as from later statements made by the artists themselves, is that they were primarily concerned with problems of representation and form and with efforts to create a far more "real" reality than the one that was accessible only to the eye. The reformation of society was of no interest to them as artists. It is also important to remember that not all decisive changes in art are quickly followed by dramatic events in the world outside art. The case of Delacroix, the nineteenth-century French painter, is revealing. His stylistic innovations startled his contemporaries—and still retain that power over modern viewers—but most art historians have decided that Delacroix adjusted himself to new social conditions that were already coming into being as a result of political upheavals that had occurred in 1830, as opposed to other artists who supposedly told of changes still to come.

199910_2-RC_1_7

Which one of the following characteristics of the painters discussed in the second paragraph does the author of the passage appear to value most highly?

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_8

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

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_9

According to the passage, the first step in preparing to formally teach a traditional language is to

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_10

Based on the passage, those who hold the view described in lines 51–54 would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements?

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_11

Which one of the following scenarios is LEAST compatible with aspects of traditional-language preservation discussed in the passage?

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_12

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

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_13

Based on the passage, the group of Northern Utes mentioned in lines 38–42 would be likely to believe each of the following statements EXCEPT:

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_14

Which one of the following most accurately describes the author's attitude toward the goal of having a written language exactly match its oral equivalent?

Tribal communities in North America believe that their traditional languages are valuable resources that must be maintained. However, these traditional languages can fall into disuse when some of the effects of the majority culture on tribal life serve as barriers between a community and its traditional forms of social, economic, or spiritual interaction. In some communities the barrier has been overcome because people have recognized that language loss is serious and have taken action to prevent it, primarily through community self-teaching. Before any community can systemically and formally teach a traditional language to its younger members, it must first document the language's grammar; for example, a group of Northern Utes spent two years conducting a thorough analysis and classification of Northern Ute linguistic structures. The grammatical information is then arranged in sequence form the simpler to the more complex types of usage, and methods are devised to present the sequence in ways that will be most useful and appropriate to the culture. Certain obstacles can stand in the way of developing these teaching methods. One is the difficulty a community may encounter when it attempts to write down elements (particularly the spellings of words) of a language that has been primarily oral for centuries, as is often the case with traditional languages. Sometimes this difficulty can simply be a matter of the lack of acceptable written equivalents for certain sounds in the traditional language: problems arise because of an insistence that every sound in the language have a unique written equivalent—a desirable but ultimately frustrating condition that no written language has ever fully satisfied. Another obstacle is dialect. There may be many language traditions in a particular community; which one is to be written down and taught? The Northern Utes decided not to standardize their language, agreeing that various phonetic spellings of words would be accepted as long as their meanings were clear. Although this troubled some community members who favored Western notions of standard language writing or whose training in Western-style linguistics was especially rigid, the lack of standard orthography made sense in the context of the community's needs. Within a year after the adoption of instruction in the Northern Ute language, even elementary school children could write and speak it effectively. It has been argued that the attempt to write down traditional languages is misguided and unnecessary; after all, in many cases these languages have been transmitted in their oral form since their origins. Defenders of the practice counter that they are writing down their languages precisely because of a general decline in oral traditions, but they concede that languages could be preserved in their oral form if a community made every effort to eschew aspects of the majority culture that make this preservation difficult.

199910_2-RC_2_15

Based on the passage, which one of the following appears to be a principle guiding the actions of those attempting to preserve their traditional languages?

Scientists have long known that the soft surface of the bill of the platypus is perforated with openings that contain sensitive nerve endings. Only recently, however, have biologists concluded on the basis of new evidence that the animal uses its bill to locate its prey while underwater, a conclusion suggested by the fact that the animal's eyes, ears, and nostrils are sealed when it is submerged. The new evidence comes from neurophysiological studies, which have recently revealed that within the pores on the bill there are two kinds of sensory receptors: mechanoreceptors, which are tiny pushrods that respond to tactile pressure, and electroreceptors, which respond to weak electrical fields. Having discovered that tactile stimulation of the pushrods sends nerve impulses to the brain, where they evoke an electric potential over an area of the neocortex much larger than the one stimulated by input from the limbs, eyes, and ears, Bohringer concluded that the bill must be the primary sensory organ for the platypus. Her finding was supported by studies showing that the bill is extraordinarily sensitive to tactile stimulation: stimulation with a fine glass stylus sent a signal by way of the fifth cranial nerve to the neocortex and from there to the motor cortex. Presumably nerve impulses from the motor cortex then induced a snapping movement of the bill. But Bohringer's investigations did not explain how the animal locates its prey at a distance. Scheich's neurophysiological studies contribute to solving this mystery. His initial work showed that when a platypus feeds, it swims along steadily wagging its bill from side to side until prey is encountered. It thereupon switches to searching behavior, characterized by erratic movements of the bill over a small area at the bottom of a body of water, which is followed by homing in on the object and seizing it. In order to determine how the animal senses prey and then distinguishes it from other objects on the bottom, Scheich hypothesized that a sensory system based on electroreception similar to that found in sharks might exist in the platypus. In further experiments he found he could trigger the switch from patrolling to searching behavior in the platypus by creating a dipole electric field in the water with the aid of a small 1.5-volt battery. The platypus, sensitive to the weak electric current that was created, rapidly oriented toward the battery at a distance of 10 centimeters and sometimes as much as 30 centimeters. Once the battery was detected, the platypus would inevitably attack it as if it were food. Scheich then discovered that the tail flicks of freshwater shrimp, a common prey of the platypus, also produce weak electric fields and elicit an identical response. Scheich and his colleagues believe that it is reasonable to assume that all the invertebrates on which the platypus feeds must produce electric fields.

199910_2-RC_3_16

The primary purpose of the passage is to

Scientists have long known that the soft surface of the bill of the platypus is perforated with openings that contain sensitive nerve endings. Only recently, however, have biologists concluded on the basis of new evidence that the animal uses its bill to locate its prey while underwater, a conclusion suggested by the fact that the animal's eyes, ears, and nostrils are sealed when it is submerged. The new evidence comes from neurophysiological studies, which have recently revealed that within the pores on the bill there are two kinds of sensory receptors: mechanoreceptors, which are tiny pushrods that respond to tactile pressure, and electroreceptors, which respond to weak electrical fields. Having discovered that tactile stimulation of the pushrods sends nerve impulses to the brain, where they evoke an electric potential over an area of the neocortex much larger than the one stimulated by input from the limbs, eyes, and ears, Bohringer concluded that the bill must be the primary sensory organ for the platypus. Her finding was supported by studies showing that the bill is extraordinarily sensitive to tactile stimulation: stimulation with a fine glass stylus sent a signal by way of the fifth cranial nerve to the neocortex and from there to the motor cortex. Presumably nerve impulses from the motor cortex then induced a snapping movement of the bill. But Bohringer's investigations did not explain how the animal locates its prey at a distance. Scheich's neurophysiological studies contribute to solving this mystery. His initial work showed that when a platypus feeds, it swims along steadily wagging its bill from side to side until prey is encountered. It thereupon switches to searching behavior, characterized by erratic movements of the bill over a small area at the bottom of a body of water, which is followed by homing in on the object and seizing it. In order to determine how the animal senses prey and then distinguishes it from other objects on the bottom, Scheich hypothesized that a sensory system based on electroreception similar to that found in sharks might exist in the platypus. In further experiments he found he could trigger the switch from patrolling to searching behavior in the platypus by creating a dipole electric field in the water with the aid of a small 1.5-volt battery. The platypus, sensitive to the weak electric current that was created, rapidly oriented toward the battery at a distance of 10 centimeters and sometimes as much as 30 centimeters. Once the battery was detected, the platypus would inevitably attack it as if it were food. Scheich then discovered that the tail flicks of freshwater shrimp, a common prey of the platypus, also produce weak electric fields and elicit an identical response. Scheich and his colleagues believe that it is reasonable to assume that all the invertebrates on which the platypus feeds must produce electric fields.

199910_2-RC_3_17

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

Scientists have long known that the soft surface of the bill of the platypus is perforated with openings that contain sensitive nerve endings. Only recently, however, have biologists concluded on the basis of new evidence that the animal uses its bill to locate its prey while underwater, a conclusion suggested by the fact that the animal's eyes, ears, and nostrils are sealed when it is submerged. The new evidence comes from neurophysiological studies, which have recently revealed that within the pores on the bill there are two kinds of sensory receptors: mechanoreceptors, which are tiny pushrods that respond to tactile pressure, and electroreceptors, which respond to weak electrical fields. Having discovered that tactile stimulation of the pushrods sends nerve impulses to the brain, where they evoke an electric potential over an area of the neocortex much larger than the one stimulated by input from the limbs, eyes, and ears, Bohringer concluded that the bill must be the primary sensory organ for the platypus. Her finding was supported by studies showing that the bill is extraordinarily sensitive to tactile stimulation: stimulation with a fine glass stylus sent a signal by way of the fifth cranial nerve to the neocortex and from there to the motor cortex. Presumably nerve impulses from the motor cortex then induced a snapping movement of the bill. But Bohringer's investigations did not explain how the animal locates its prey at a distance. Scheich's neurophysiological studies contribute to solving this mystery. His initial work showed that when a platypus feeds, it swims along steadily wagging its bill from side to side until prey is encountered. It thereupon switches to searching behavior, characterized by erratic movements of the bill over a small area at the bottom of a body of water, which is followed by homing in on the object and seizing it. In order to determine how the animal senses prey and then distinguishes it from other objects on the bottom, Scheich hypothesized that a sensory system based on electroreception similar to that found in sharks might exist in the platypus. In further experiments he found he could trigger the switch from patrolling to searching behavior in the platypus by creating a dipole electric field in the water with the aid of a small 1.5-volt battery. The platypus, sensitive to the weak electric current that was created, rapidly oriented toward the battery at a distance of 10 centimeters and sometimes as much as 30 centimeters. Once the battery was detected, the platypus would inevitably attack it as if it were food. Scheich then discovered that the tail flicks of freshwater shrimp, a common prey of the platypus, also produce weak electric fields and elicit an identical response. Scheich and his colleagues believe that it is reasonable to assume that all the invertebrates on which the platypus feeds must produce electric fields.

199910_2-RC_3_18

During the studies supporting Bohringer's finding, as they are described in the passage, which one of the following occurred before a nerve impulse reached the motor cortex of the platypus?

Scientists have long known that the soft surface of the bill of the platypus is perforated with openings that contain sensitive nerve endings. Only recently, however, have biologists concluded on the basis of new evidence that the animal uses its bill to locate its prey while underwater, a conclusion suggested by the fact that the animal's eyes, ears, and nostrils are sealed when it is submerged. The new evidence comes from neurophysiological studies, which have recently revealed that within the pores on the bill there are two kinds of sensory receptors: mechanoreceptors, which are tiny pushrods that respond to tactile pressure, and electroreceptors, which respond to weak electrical fields. Having discovered that tactile stimulation of the pushrods sends nerve impulses to the brain, where they evoke an electric potential over an area of the neocortex much larger than the one stimulated by input from the limbs, eyes, and ears, Bohringer concluded that the bill must be the primary sensory organ for the platypus. Her finding was supported by studies showing that the bill is extraordinarily sensitive to tactile stimulation: stimulation with a fine glass stylus sent a signal by way of the fifth cranial nerve to the neocortex and from there to the motor cortex. Presumably nerve impulses from the motor cortex then induced a snapping movement of the bill. But Bohringer's investigations did not explain how the animal locates its prey at a distance. Scheich's neurophysiological studies contribute to solving this mystery. His initial work showed that when a platypus feeds, it swims along steadily wagging its bill from side to side until prey is encountered. It thereupon switches to searching behavior, characterized by erratic movements of the bill over a small area at the bottom of a body of water, which is followed by homing in on the object and seizing it. In order to determine how the animal senses prey and then distinguishes it from other objects on the bottom, Scheich hypothesized that a sensory system based on electroreception similar to that found in sharks might exist in the platypus. In further experiments he found he could trigger the switch from patrolling to searching behavior in the platypus by creating a dipole electric field in the water with the aid of a small 1.5-volt battery. The platypus, sensitive to the weak electric current that was created, rapidly oriented toward the battery at a distance of 10 centimeters and sometimes as much as 30 centimeters. Once the battery was detected, the platypus would inevitably attack it as if it were food. Scheich then discovered that the tail flicks of freshwater shrimp, a common prey of the platypus, also produce weak electric fields and elicit an identical response. Scheich and his colleagues believe that it is reasonable to assume that all the invertebrates on which the platypus feeds must produce electric fields.

199910_2-RC_3_19

Which one of the following strategies is most similar to Scheich's experimental strategy as it is described in the passage?

Scientists have long known that the soft surface of the bill of the platypus is perforated with openings that contain sensitive nerve endings. Only recently, however, have biologists concluded on the basis of new evidence that the animal uses its bill to locate its prey while underwater, a conclusion suggested by the fact that the animal's eyes, ears, and nostrils are sealed when it is submerged. The new evidence comes from neurophysiological studies, which have recently revealed that within the pores on the bill there are two kinds of sensory receptors: mechanoreceptors, which are tiny pushrods that respond to tactile pressure, and electroreceptors, which respond to weak electrical fields. Having discovered that tactile stimulation of the pushrods sends nerve impulses to the brain, where they evoke an electric potential over an area of the neocortex much larger than the one stimulated by input from the limbs, eyes, and ears, Bohringer concluded that the bill must be the primary sensory organ for the platypus. Her finding was supported by studies showing that the bill is extraordinarily sensitive to tactile stimulation: stimulation with a fine glass stylus sent a signal by way of the fifth cranial nerve to the neocortex and from there to the motor cortex. Presumably nerve impulses from the motor cortex then induced a snapping movement of the bill. But Bohringer's investigations did not explain how the animal locates its prey at a distance. Scheich's neurophysiological studies contribute to solving this mystery. His initial work showed that when a platypus feeds, it swims along steadily wagging its bill from side to side until prey is encountered. It thereupon switches to searching behavior, characterized by erratic movements of the bill over a small area at the bottom of a body of water, which is followed by homing in on the object and seizing it. In order to determine how the animal senses prey and then distinguishes it from other objects on the bottom, Scheich hypothesized that a sensory system based on electroreception similar to that found in sharks might exist in the platypus. In further experiments he found he could trigger the switch from patrolling to searching behavior in the platypus by creating a dipole electric field in the water with the aid of a small 1.5-volt battery. The platypus, sensitive to the weak electric current that was created, rapidly oriented toward the battery at a distance of 10 centimeters and sometimes as much as 30 centimeters. Once the battery was detected, the platypus would inevitably attack it as if it were food. Scheich then discovered that the tail flicks of freshwater shrimp, a common prey of the platypus, also produce weak electric fields and elicit an identical response. Scheich and his colleagues believe that it is reasonable to assume that all the invertebrates on which the platypus feeds must produce electric fields.

199910_2-RC_3_20

It can be inferred from the passage that during patrolling behavior, the platypus is attempting to

Scientists have long known that the soft surface of the bill of the platypus is perforated with openings that contain sensitive nerve endings. Only recently, however, have biologists concluded on the basis of new evidence that the animal uses its bill to locate its prey while underwater, a conclusion suggested by the fact that the animal's eyes, ears, and nostrils are sealed when it is submerged. The new evidence comes from neurophysiological studies, which have recently revealed that within the pores on the bill there are two kinds of sensory receptors: mechanoreceptors, which are tiny pushrods that respond to tactile pressure, and electroreceptors, which respond to weak electrical fields. Having discovered that tactile stimulation of the pushrods sends nerve impulses to the brain, where they evoke an electric potential over an area of the neocortex much larger than the one stimulated by input from the limbs, eyes, and ears, Bohringer concluded that the bill must be the primary sensory organ for the platypus. Her finding was supported by studies showing that the bill is extraordinarily sensitive to tactile stimulation: stimulation with a fine glass stylus sent a signal by way of the fifth cranial nerve to the neocortex and from there to the motor cortex. Presumably nerve impulses from the motor cortex then induced a snapping movement of the bill. But Bohringer's investigations did not explain how the animal locates its prey at a distance. Scheich's neurophysiological studies contribute to solving this mystery. His initial work showed that when a platypus feeds, it swims along steadily wagging its bill from side to side until prey is encountered. It thereupon switches to searching behavior, characterized by erratic movements of the bill over a small area at the bottom of a body of water, which is followed by homing in on the object and seizing it. In order to determine how the animal senses prey and then distinguishes it from other objects on the bottom, Scheich hypothesized that a sensory system based on electroreception similar to that found in sharks might exist in the platypus. In further experiments he found he could trigger the switch from patrolling to searching behavior in the platypus by creating a dipole electric field in the water with the aid of a small 1.5-volt battery. The platypus, sensitive to the weak electric current that was created, rapidly oriented toward the battery at a distance of 10 centimeters and sometimes as much as 30 centimeters. Once the battery was detected, the platypus would inevitably attack it as if it were food. Scheich then discovered that the tail flicks of freshwater shrimp, a common prey of the platypus, also produce weak electric fields and elicit an identical response. Scheich and his colleagues believe that it is reasonable to assume that all the invertebrates on which the platypus feeds must produce electric fields.

199910_2-RC_3_21

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

Until about 1970, anyone who wanted to write a comprehensive history of medieval English law as it actually affected women would have found a dearth of published books or articles concerned with specific legal topics relating to women and derived from extensive research in actual court records. This is a serious deficiency, since court records are of vital importance in discovering how the law actually affected women, as opposed to how the law was intended to affect them or thought to affect them. These latter questions can be answered by consulting such sources as treatises, commentaries, and statutes; such texts were what most scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries concentrated on whenever they did write about medieval law. But these sources are of little help in determining, for example, how often women's special statutory privileges were thwarted by intimidation or harassment, or how often women managed to evade special statutory limitations. And, quite apart from provisions designed to apply only, or especially, to women, they cannot tell us how general law affected the female half of the population—how women defendants and plaintiffs were treated in the courts in practice when they tried to exercise the rights they shared with men. Only quantitative studies of large numbers of cases would allow even a guess at the answers to these questions, and this scholarly work has been attempted by few. One can easily imagine why. Most medieval English court records are written in Latin or Anglo-Norman French and have never been published. The sheer volume of material to be sifted is daunting: there are over 27,500 parchment pages in the common plea rolls of the thirteenth century alone, every page nearly three feet long, and written often front and back in highly stylized court hand. But the difficulty of the sources, while it might appear to explain why the relevant scholarship has not been undertaken, seems actually to have deterred few: the fact is that few historians have wanted to write anything approaching women's legal history in the first place. Most modern legal historians who have written on one aspect or another of special laws pertaining to women have begun with an interest in a legal idea or event or institution, not with a concern for how it affected women. Very few legal historians have started with an interest in women's history that they might have elected to pursue through various areas of general law. And the result of all this is that the current state of our scholarly knowledge relating to law and the medieval Englishwoman is still fragmentary at best, though the situation is slowly improving.

199910_2-RC_4_22

It can be inferred from the passage that the author believes which one of the following to be true of the sources consulted by nineteenth-century historians of medieval law?

Until about 1970, anyone who wanted to write a comprehensive history of medieval English law as it actually affected women would have found a dearth of published books or articles concerned with specific legal topics relating to women and derived from extensive research in actual court records. This is a serious deficiency, since court records are of vital importance in discovering how the law actually affected women, as opposed to how the law was intended to affect them or thought to affect them. These latter questions can be answered by consulting such sources as treatises, commentaries, and statutes; such texts were what most scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries concentrated on whenever they did write about medieval law. But these sources are of little help in determining, for example, how often women's special statutory privileges were thwarted by intimidation or harassment, or how often women managed to evade special statutory limitations. And, quite apart from provisions designed to apply only, or especially, to women, they cannot tell us how general law affected the female half of the population—how women defendants and plaintiffs were treated in the courts in practice when they tried to exercise the rights they shared with men. Only quantitative studies of large numbers of cases would allow even a guess at the answers to these questions, and this scholarly work has been attempted by few. One can easily imagine why. Most medieval English court records are written in Latin or Anglo-Norman French and have never been published. The sheer volume of material to be sifted is daunting: there are over 27,500 parchment pages in the common plea rolls of the thirteenth century alone, every page nearly three feet long, and written often front and back in highly stylized court hand. But the difficulty of the sources, while it might appear to explain why the relevant scholarship has not been undertaken, seems actually to have deterred few: the fact is that few historians have wanted to write anything approaching women's legal history in the first place. Most modern legal historians who have written on one aspect or another of special laws pertaining to women have begun with an interest in a legal idea or event or institution, not with a concern for how it affected women. Very few legal historians have started with an interest in women's history that they might have elected to pursue through various areas of general law. And the result of all this is that the current state of our scholarly knowledge relating to law and the medieval Englishwoman is still fragmentary at best, though the situation is slowly improving.

199910_2-RC_4_23

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

Until about 1970, anyone who wanted to write a comprehensive history of medieval English law as it actually affected women would have found a dearth of published books or articles concerned with specific legal topics relating to women and derived from extensive research in actual court records. This is a serious deficiency, since court records are of vital importance in discovering how the law actually affected women, as opposed to how the law was intended to affect them or thought to affect them. These latter questions can be answered by consulting such sources as treatises, commentaries, and statutes; such texts were what most scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries concentrated on whenever they did write about medieval law. But these sources are of little help in determining, for example, how often women's special statutory privileges were thwarted by intimidation or harassment, or how often women managed to evade special statutory limitations. And, quite apart from provisions designed to apply only, or especially, to women, they cannot tell us how general law affected the female half of the population—how women defendants and plaintiffs were treated in the courts in practice when they tried to exercise the rights they shared with men. Only quantitative studies of large numbers of cases would allow even a guess at the answers to these questions, and this scholarly work has been attempted by few. One can easily imagine why. Most medieval English court records are written in Latin or Anglo-Norman French and have never been published. The sheer volume of material to be sifted is daunting: there are over 27,500 parchment pages in the common plea rolls of the thirteenth century alone, every page nearly three feet long, and written often front and back in highly stylized court hand. But the difficulty of the sources, while it might appear to explain why the relevant scholarship has not been undertaken, seems actually to have deterred few: the fact is that few historians have wanted to write anything approaching women's legal history in the first place. Most modern legal historians who have written on one aspect or another of special laws pertaining to women have begun with an interest in a legal idea or event or institution, not with a concern for how it affected women. Very few legal historians have started with an interest in women's history that they might have elected to pursue through various areas of general law. And the result of all this is that the current state of our scholarly knowledge relating to law and the medieval Englishwoman is still fragmentary at best, though the situation is slowly improving.

199910_2-RC_4_24

According to the passage, quantitative studies of the kind referred to in line 25 can aid in determining

Until about 1970, anyone who wanted to write a comprehensive history of medieval English law as it actually affected women would have found a dearth of published books or articles concerned with specific legal topics relating to women and derived from extensive research in actual court records. This is a serious deficiency, since court records are of vital importance in discovering how the law actually affected women, as opposed to how the law was intended to affect them or thought to affect them. These latter questions can be answered by consulting such sources as treatises, commentaries, and statutes; such texts were what most scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries concentrated on whenever they did write about medieval law. But these sources are of little help in determining, for example, how often women's special statutory privileges were thwarted by intimidation or harassment, or how often women managed to evade special statutory limitations. And, quite apart from provisions designed to apply only, or especially, to women, they cannot tell us how general law affected the female half of the population—how women defendants and plaintiffs were treated in the courts in practice when they tried to exercise the rights they shared with men. Only quantitative studies of large numbers of cases would allow even a guess at the answers to these questions, and this scholarly work has been attempted by few. One can easily imagine why. Most medieval English court records are written in Latin or Anglo-Norman French and have never been published. The sheer volume of material to be sifted is daunting: there are over 27,500 parchment pages in the common plea rolls of the thirteenth century alone, every page nearly three feet long, and written often front and back in highly stylized court hand. But the difficulty of the sources, while it might appear to explain why the relevant scholarship has not been undertaken, seems actually to have deterred few: the fact is that few historians have wanted to write anything approaching women's legal history in the first place. Most modern legal historians who have written on one aspect or another of special laws pertaining to women have begun with an interest in a legal idea or event or institution, not with a concern for how it affected women. Very few legal historians have started with an interest in women's history that they might have elected to pursue through various areas of general law. And the result of all this is that the current state of our scholarly knowledge relating to law and the medieval Englishwoman is still fragmentary at best, though the situation is slowly improving.

199910_2-RC_4_25

According to the passage, the sources consulted by legal scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries provided adequate information concerning which one of the following topics?

Until about 1970, anyone who wanted to write a comprehensive history of medieval English law as it actually affected women would have found a dearth of published books or articles concerned with specific legal topics relating to women and derived from extensive research in actual court records. This is a serious deficiency, since court records are of vital importance in discovering how the law actually affected women, as opposed to how the law was intended to affect them or thought to affect them. These latter questions can be answered by consulting such sources as treatises, commentaries, and statutes; such texts were what most scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries concentrated on whenever they did write about medieval law. But these sources are of little help in determining, for example, how often women's special statutory privileges were thwarted by intimidation or harassment, or how often women managed to evade special statutory limitations. And, quite apart from provisions designed to apply only, or especially, to women, they cannot tell us how general law affected the female half of the population—how women defendants and plaintiffs were treated in the courts in practice when they tried to exercise the rights they shared with men. Only quantitative studies of large numbers of cases would allow even a guess at the answers to these questions, and this scholarly work has been attempted by few. One can easily imagine why. Most medieval English court records are written in Latin or Anglo-Norman French and have never been published. The sheer volume of material to be sifted is daunting: there are over 27,500 parchment pages in the common plea rolls of the thirteenth century alone, every page nearly three feet long, and written often front and back in highly stylized court hand. But the difficulty of the sources, while it might appear to explain why the relevant scholarship has not been undertaken, seems actually to have deterred few: the fact is that few historians have wanted to write anything approaching women's legal history in the first place. Most modern legal historians who have written on one aspect or another of special laws pertaining to women have begun with an interest in a legal idea or event or institution, not with a concern for how it affected women. Very few legal historians have started with an interest in women's history that they might have elected to pursue through various areas of general law. And the result of all this is that the current state of our scholarly knowledge relating to law and the medieval Englishwoman is still fragmentary at best, though the situation is slowly improving.

199910_2-RC_4_26

As used in lines 37–38, the phrase "the relevant scholarship" can best be understood as referring to which one of the following kinds of scholarly work?

Until about 1970, anyone who wanted to write a comprehensive history of medieval English law as it actually affected women would have found a dearth of published books or articles concerned with specific legal topics relating to women and derived from extensive research in actual court records. This is a serious deficiency, since court records are of vital importance in discovering how the law actually affected women, as opposed to how the law was intended to affect them or thought to affect them. These latter questions can be answered by consulting such sources as treatises, commentaries, and statutes; such texts were what most scholars of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries concentrated on whenever they did write about medieval law. But these sources are of little help in determining, for example, how often women's special statutory privileges were thwarted by intimidation or harassment, or how often women managed to evade special statutory limitations. And, quite apart from provisions designed to apply only, or especially, to women, they cannot tell us how general law affected the female half of the population—how women defendants and plaintiffs were treated in the courts in practice when they tried to exercise the rights they shared with men. Only quantitative studies of large numbers of cases would allow even a guess at the answers to these questions, and this scholarly work has been attempted by few. One can easily imagine why. Most medieval English court records are written in Latin or Anglo-Norman French and have never been published. The sheer volume of material to be sifted is daunting: there are over 27,500 parchment pages in the common plea rolls of the thirteenth century alone, every page nearly three feet long, and written often front and back in highly stylized court hand. But the difficulty of the sources, while it might appear to explain why the relevant scholarship has not been undertaken, seems actually to have deterred few: the fact is that few historians have wanted to write anything approaching women's legal history in the first place. Most modern legal historians who have written on one aspect or another of special laws pertaining to women have begun with an interest in a legal idea or event or institution, not with a concern for how it affected women. Very few legal historians have started with an interest in women's history that they might have elected to pursue through various areas of general law. And the result of all this is that the current state of our scholarly knowledge relating to law and the medieval Englishwoman is still fragmentary at best, though the situation is slowly improving.

199910_2-RC_4_27

It can be inferred from the passage that, in the author's view, which one of the following factors is most responsible for the current deficiencies in our knowledge of women's legal history?

The okapi, a forest mammal of central Africa, has presented zoologists with a number of difficult questions since they first learned of its existence in 1900. The first was how to classify it. Because it was horselike in dimension, and bore patches of striped hide similar to a zebra's (a relative of the horse), zoologists first classified it as a member of the horse family. But further studies showed that, despite okapis' coloration and short necks, their closest relatives were giraffes. The okapi's rightful place within the giraffe family is confirmed by its skin-covered horns (in males), two-lobed canine teeth, and long prehensile tongue. The next question was the size of the okapi population. Because okapis were infrequently captured by hunters, some zoologists believed that they were rare; however, others theorized that their habits simply kept them out of sight. It was not until 1985, when zoologists started tracking okapis by affixing collars equipped with radio transmitters to briefly captured specimens, that reliable information about okapi numbers and habits began to be collected. It turns out that while okapis are not as rare as some zoologists suspected, their population is concentrated in an extremely limited chain of forestland in northeastern central Africa, surrounded by savanna. One reason for their seeming scarcity is that their coloration allows okapis to camouflage themselves even at close range. Another is that okapis do not travel in groups or with other large forest mammals, and neither frequent open riverbanks nor forage at the borders of clearings, choosing instead to keep to the forest interior. This is because okapis, unlike any other animal in the central African forest, subsist entirely on leaves: more than one hundred species of plants have been identified as part of their diet, and about twenty of these are preferred. Okapis never eat one plant to the exclusion of others; even where preferred foliage is abundant, okapis will leave much of it uneaten, choosing to move on and sample other leaves. Because of this, and because of the distribution of their food, okapis engage in individual rather than congregated foraging. But other questions about okapi behavior arise. Why for example, do they prefer to remain within forested areas when many of their favorite plants are found in the open border between forest and savanna? One possibility is that this is a defense against predators; another is that the okapi was pushed into the forest by competition with other large, hoofed animals, such as the bushbuck and bongo, that specialize on the forest edges and graze them more efficiently. Another question is why okapis are absent from other nearby forest regions that would seem hospitable to them. Zoologists theorize that okapis are relicts of an era when forestland was scarce and that they continue to respect those borders even though available forestland has long since expanded.

199912_3-RC_1_1

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

The okapi, a forest mammal of central Africa, has presented zoologists with a number of difficult questions since they first learned of its existence in 1900. The first was how to classify it. Because it was horselike in dimension, and bore patches of striped hide similar to a zebra's (a relative of the horse), zoologists first classified it as a member of the horse family. But further studies showed that, despite okapis' coloration and short necks, their closest relatives were giraffes. The okapi's rightful place within the giraffe family is confirmed by its skin-covered horns (in males), two-lobed canine teeth, and long prehensile tongue. The next question was the size of the okapi population. Because okapis were infrequently captured by hunters, some zoologists believed that they were rare; however, others theorized that their habits simply kept them out of sight. It was not until 1985, when zoologists started tracking okapis by affixing collars equipped with radio transmitters to briefly captured specimens, that reliable information about okapi numbers and habits began to be collected. It turns out that while okapis are not as rare as some zoologists suspected, their population is concentrated in an extremely limited chain of forestland in northeastern central Africa, surrounded by savanna. One reason for their seeming scarcity is that their coloration allows okapis to camouflage themselves even at close range. Another is that okapis do not travel in groups or with other large forest mammals, and neither frequent open riverbanks nor forage at the borders of clearings, choosing instead to keep to the forest interior. This is because okapis, unlike any other animal in the central African forest, subsist entirely on leaves: more than one hundred species of plants have been identified as part of their diet, and about twenty of these are preferred. Okapis never eat one plant to the exclusion of others; even where preferred foliage is abundant, okapis will leave much of it uneaten, choosing to move on and sample other leaves. Because of this, and because of the distribution of their food, okapis engage in individual rather than congregated foraging. But other questions about okapi behavior arise. Why for example, do they prefer to remain within forested areas when many of their favorite plants are found in the open border between forest and savanna? One possibility is that this is a defense against predators; another is that the okapi was pushed into the forest by competition with other large, hoofed animals, such as the bushbuck and bongo, that specialize on the forest edges and graze them more efficiently. Another question is why okapis are absent from other nearby forest regions that would seem hospitable to them. Zoologists theorize that okapis are relicts of an era when forestland was scarce and that they continue to respect those borders even though available forestland has long since expanded.

199912_3-RC_1_2

The function of the third paragraph is to

The okapi, a forest mammal of central Africa, has presented zoologists with a number of difficult questions since they first learned of its existence in 1900. The first was how to classify it. Because it was horselike in dimension, and bore patches of striped hide similar to a zebra's (a relative of the horse), zoologists first classified it as a member of the horse family. But further studies showed that, despite okapis' coloration and short necks, their closest relatives were giraffes. The okapi's rightful place within the giraffe family is confirmed by its skin-covered horns (in males), two-lobed canine teeth, and long prehensile tongue. The next question was the size of the okapi population. Because okapis were infrequently captured by hunters, some zoologists believed that they were rare; however, others theorized that their habits simply kept them out of sight. It was not until 1985, when zoologists started tracking okapis by affixing collars equipped with radio transmitters to briefly captured specimens, that reliable information about okapi numbers and habits began to be collected. It turns out that while okapis are not as rare as some zoologists suspected, their population is concentrated in an extremely limited chain of forestland in northeastern central Africa, surrounded by savanna. One reason for their seeming scarcity is that their coloration allows okapis to camouflage themselves even at close range. Another is that okapis do not travel in groups or with other large forest mammals, and neither frequent open riverbanks nor forage at the borders of clearings, choosing instead to keep to the forest interior. This is because okapis, unlike any other animal in the central African forest, subsist entirely on leaves: more than one hundred species of plants have been identified as part of their diet, and about twenty of these are preferred. Okapis never eat one plant to the exclusion of others; even where preferred foliage is abundant, okapis will leave much of it uneaten, choosing to move on and sample other leaves. Because of this, and because of the distribution of their food, okapis engage in individual rather than congregated foraging. But other questions about okapi behavior arise. Why for example, do they prefer to remain within forested areas when many of their favorite plants are found in the open border between forest and savanna? One possibility is that this is a defense against predators; another is that the okapi was pushed into the forest by competition with other large, hoofed animals, such as the bushbuck and bongo, that specialize on the forest edges and graze them more efficiently. Another question is why okapis are absent from other nearby forest regions that would seem hospitable to them. Zoologists theorize that okapis are relicts of an era when forestland was scarce and that they continue to respect those borders even though available forestland has long since expanded.

199912_3-RC_1_3

Based on the passage, in its eating behavior the okapi is most analogous to

The okapi, a forest mammal of central Africa, has presented zoologists with a number of difficult questions since they first learned of its existence in 1900. The first was how to classify it. Because it was horselike in dimension, and bore patches of striped hide similar to a zebra's (a relative of the horse), zoologists first classified it as a member of the horse family. But further studies showed that, despite okapis' coloration and short necks, their closest relatives were giraffes. The okapi's rightful place within the giraffe family is confirmed by its skin-covered horns (in males), two-lobed canine teeth, and long prehensile tongue. The next question was the size of the okapi population. Because okapis were infrequently captured by hunters, some zoologists believed that they were rare; however, others theorized that their habits simply kept them out of sight. It was not until 1985, when zoologists started tracking okapis by affixing collars equipped with radio transmitters to briefly captured specimens, that reliable information about okapi numbers and habits began to be collected. It turns out that while okapis are not as rare as some zoologists suspected, their population is concentrated in an extremely limited chain of forestland in northeastern central Africa, surrounded by savanna. One reason for their seeming scarcity is that their coloration allows okapis to camouflage themselves even at close range. Another is that okapis do not travel in groups or with other large forest mammals, and neither frequent open riverbanks nor forage at the borders of clearings, choosing instead to keep to the forest interior. This is because okapis, unlike any other animal in the central African forest, subsist entirely on leaves: more than one hundred species of plants have been identified as part of their diet, and about twenty of these are preferred. Okapis never eat one plant to the exclusion of others; even where preferred foliage is abundant, okapis will leave much of it uneaten, choosing to move on and sample other leaves. Because of this, and because of the distribution of their food, okapis engage in individual rather than congregated foraging. But other questions about okapi behavior arise. Why for example, do they prefer to remain within forested areas when many of their favorite plants are found in the open border between forest and savanna? One possibility is that this is a defense against predators; another is that the okapi was pushed into the forest by competition with other large, hoofed animals, such as the bushbuck and bongo, that specialize on the forest edges and graze them more efficiently. Another question is why okapis are absent from other nearby forest regions that would seem hospitable to them. Zoologists theorize that okapis are relicts of an era when forestland was scarce and that they continue to respect those borders even though available forestland has long since expanded.

199912_3-RC_1_4

Suppose that numerous okapis are discovered living in a remote forest region in northeastern central Africa that zoologists had not previously explored. Based on their current views, which one of the following would the zoologists be most likely to conclude about this discovery?

The okapi, a forest mammal of central Africa, has presented zoologists with a number of difficult questions since they first learned of its existence in 1900. The first was how to classify it. Because it was horselike in dimension, and bore patches of striped hide similar to a zebra's (a relative of the horse), zoologists first classified it as a member of the horse family. But further studies showed that, despite okapis' coloration and short necks, their closest relatives were giraffes. The okapi's rightful place within the giraffe family is confirmed by its skin-covered horns (in males), two-lobed canine teeth, and long prehensile tongue. The next question was the size of the okapi population. Because okapis were infrequently captured by hunters, some zoologists believed that they were rare; however, others theorized that their habits simply kept them out of sight. It was not until 1985, when zoologists started tracking okapis by affixing collars equipped with radio transmitters to briefly captured specimens, that reliable information about okapi numbers and habits began to be collected. It turns out that while okapis are not as rare as some zoologists suspected, their population is concentrated in an extremely limited chain of forestland in northeastern central Africa, surrounded by savanna. One reason for their seeming scarcity is that their coloration allows okapis to camouflage themselves even at close range. Another is that okapis do not travel in groups or with other large forest mammals, and neither frequent open riverbanks nor forage at the borders of clearings, choosing instead to keep to the forest interior. This is because okapis, unlike any other animal in the central African forest, subsist entirely on leaves: more than one hundred species of plants have been identified as part of their diet, and about twenty of these are preferred. Okapis never eat one plant to the exclusion of others; even where preferred foliage is abundant, okapis will leave much of it uneaten, choosing to move on and sample other leaves. Because of this, and because of the distribution of their food, okapis engage in individual rather than congregated foraging. But other questions about okapi behavior arise. Why for example, do they prefer to remain within forested areas when many of their favorite plants are found in the open border between forest and savanna? One possibility is that this is a defense against predators; another is that the okapi was pushed into the forest by competition with other large, hoofed animals, such as the bushbuck and bongo, that specialize on the forest edges and graze them more efficiently. Another question is why okapis are absent from other nearby forest regions that would seem hospitable to them. Zoologists theorize that okapis are relicts of an era when forestland was scarce and that they continue to respect those borders even though available forestland has long since expanded.

199912_3-RC_1_5

The passage provides information intended to help explain each of the following EXCEPT:

The okapi, a forest mammal of central Africa, has presented zoologists with a number of difficult questions since they first learned of its existence in 1900. The first was how to classify it. Because it was horselike in dimension, and bore patches of striped hide similar to a zebra's (a relative of the horse), zoologists first classified it as a member of the horse family. But further studies showed that, despite okapis' coloration and short necks, their closest relatives were giraffes. The okapi's rightful place within the giraffe family is confirmed by its skin-covered horns (in males), two-lobed canine teeth, and long prehensile tongue. The next question was the size of the okapi population. Because okapis were infrequently captured by hunters, some zoologists believed that they were rare; however, others theorized that their habits simply kept them out of sight. It was not until 1985, when zoologists started tracking okapis by affixing collars equipped with radio transmitters to briefly captured specimens, that reliable information about okapi numbers and habits began to be collected. It turns out that while okapis are not as rare as some zoologists suspected, their population is concentrated in an extremely limited chain of forestland in northeastern central Africa, surrounded by savanna. One reason for their seeming scarcity is that their coloration allows okapis to camouflage themselves even at close range. Another is that okapis do not travel in groups or with other large forest mammals, and neither frequent open riverbanks nor forage at the borders of clearings, choosing instead to keep to the forest interior. This is because okapis, unlike any other animal in the central African forest, subsist entirely on leaves: more than one hundred species of plants have been identified as part of their diet, and about twenty of these are preferred. Okapis never eat one plant to the exclusion of others; even where preferred foliage is abundant, okapis will leave much of it uneaten, choosing to move on and sample other leaves. Because of this, and because of the distribution of their food, okapis engage in individual rather than congregated foraging. But other questions about okapi behavior arise. Why for example, do they prefer to remain within forested areas when many of their favorite plants are found in the open border between forest and savanna? One possibility is that this is a defense against predators; another is that the okapi was pushed into the forest by competition with other large, hoofed animals, such as the bushbuck and bongo, that specialize on the forest edges and graze them more efficiently. Another question is why okapis are absent from other nearby forest regions that would seem hospitable to them. Zoologists theorize that okapis are relicts of an era when forestland was scarce and that they continue to respect those borders even though available forestland has long since expanded.

199912_3-RC_1_6

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

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_7

Based on the information presented in the passage, which one of the following statements best represents Lesky's view of Agamemnon?

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_8

Which one of the following paraphrases most accurately restates the quotation from Agamemnon found in lines 48–49 of the passage?

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_9

Which one of the following statements best expresses Rivier's view, as presented in the passage, of what makes a drama tragic?

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_10

It can be inferred from the passage that the central difference between the interpretations of Lesky and Rivier is over which one of the following points?

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_11

Which one of the following summaries of the plot of a Greek tragedy best illustrates the view attributed to Rivier in the passage?

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_12

The quotation in lines 21–23 suggests that Barbu assumes which one of the following about Aeschylean drama?

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_13

All of the following statements describe Snell's view of Aeschylus' tragic protagonists, as it is presented in the passage, EXCEPT:

Tragic dramas written in Greece during the fifth century B.C. engender considerable scholarly debate over the relative influence of individual autonomy and the power of the gods on the drama's action. One early scholar, B. Snell, argues that Aeschylus, for example, develops in his tragedies a concept of the autonomy of the individual. In these dramas, the protagonists invariably confront a situation that paralyzes them, so that their prior notions about how to behave or think are dissolved. Faced with a decision on which their fate depends, they must reexamine their deepest motives, and then act with determination. They are given only two alternatives, each with grave consequences, and they make their decision only after a tortured internal debate. According to Snell, this decision is "free" and "personal" and such personal autonomy constitutes the central theme in Aeschylean drama, as if the plays were devised to isolate an abstract model of human action. Drawing psychological conclusions from this interpretation, another scholar, Z. Barbu, suggests that "[Aeschylean] drama is proof of the emergence within ancient Greek civilization of the individual as a free agent." To A. Rivier, Snell's emphasis on the decision made by the protagonist, with its implicit notions of autonomy and responsibility, misrepresents the role of the superhuman forces at work, forces that give the dramas their truly tragic dimension. These forces are not only external to the protagonist; they are also experienced by the protagonist as an internal compulsion, subjecting him or her to constraint even in what are claimed to be his or her "choices." Hence all that the deliberation does is to make the protagonist aware of the impasse, rather than motivating one choice over another. It is finally a necessity imposed by the deities that generates the decision, so that at a particular moment in the drama necessity dictates a path. Thus, the protagonist does not so much "choose" between two possibilities as "recognize" that there is only one real option. A. Lesky, in his discussion of Aeschylus' play Agamemnon, disputes both views. Agamemnon, ruler of Argos, must decide whether to brutally sacrifice his own daughter. A message from the deity Artemis has told him that only the sacrifice will bring a wind to blow his ships to an important battle. Agamemnon is indeed constrained by a divine necessity. But he also deeply desires a victorious battle: "If this sacrifice willloose the winds, it is permitted to desire it fervently," he says. The violence of his passion suggests that Agamemnon chooses a path—chosen by the gods for their own reasons—on the basis of desires that must be condemned by us, because they are his own. In Lesky's view, tragic action is bound by the constant tension between a self and superhuman forces.

199912_3-RC_2_14

The primary purpose of the passage is to

Philosopher Denise Meyerson views the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement as seeking to debunk orthodox legal theory by exposing its contradictions. However, Meyerson argues that CLS proponents tend to see contradictions where none exist, and that CLS overrates the threat that conflict poses to orthodox legal theory. According to Meyerson, CLS proponents hold that the existence of conflicting values in the law implies the absence of any uniquely right solution to legal cases. CLS argues that these conflicting values generate equally plausible but opposing answers to any given legal question, and, consequently, that the choice between the conflicting answers must necessarily be arbitrary or irrational. Meyerson denies that the existence of conflicting values makes a case irresolvable, and asserts that at least some such cases can be resolved by ranking the conflicting values. For example, a lawyer's obligation to preserve a client's confidences may entail harming other parties, thus violating moral principle. This conflict can be resolved if it can be shown that in certain cases the professional obligation overrides ordinary moral obligations. In addition, says Meyerson, even when the two solutions are equally compelling, it does not follow that the choice between them must be irrational. On the contrary, a solution that is not rationally required need not be unreasonable. Meyerson concurs with another critic that instead of concentrating on the choice between two compelling alternatives, we should rather reflect on the difference between both of these answers on the one hand, and some utterly unreasonable answer on the other—such as deciding a property dispute on the basis of which claimant is louder. The acknowledgment that conflicting values can exist, then, does not have the far-reaching implications imputed by CLS; even if some answer to a problem is not the only answer, opting for it can still be reasonable. Last, Meyerson takes issue with the CLS charge that legal formalism, the belief that there is a quasi-deductive method capable of giving solutions to problems of legal choice, requires objectivism, the belief that the legal process has moral authority. Meyerson claims that showing the law to be unambiguous does not demonstrate its legitimacy: consider a game in which participants compete to steal the item of highest value from a shop; while a person may easily identify the winner in terms of the rules, it does not follow that the person endorses the rules of the game. A CLS scholar might object that legal cases are unlike games, in that one cannot merely apply the rules without appealing to, and therefore endorsing, external considerations of purpose, policy, and value. But Meyerson replies that such considerations may be viewed as part of, not separate from, the rules of the game.

199912_3-RC_3_15

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

Philosopher Denise Meyerson views the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement as seeking to debunk orthodox legal theory by exposing its contradictions. However, Meyerson argues that CLS proponents tend to see contradictions where none exist, and that CLS overrates the threat that conflict poses to orthodox legal theory. According to Meyerson, CLS proponents hold that the existence of conflicting values in the law implies the absence of any uniquely right solution to legal cases. CLS argues that these conflicting values generate equally plausible but opposing answers to any given legal question, and, consequently, that the choice between the conflicting answers must necessarily be arbitrary or irrational. Meyerson denies that the existence of conflicting values makes a case irresolvable, and asserts that at least some such cases can be resolved by ranking the conflicting values. For example, a lawyer's obligation to preserve a client's confidences may entail harming other parties, thus violating moral principle. This conflict can be resolved if it can be shown that in certain cases the professional obligation overrides ordinary moral obligations. In addition, says Meyerson, even when the two solutions are equally compelling, it does not follow that the choice between them must be irrational. On the contrary, a solution that is not rationally required need not be unreasonable. Meyerson concurs with another critic that instead of concentrating on the choice between two compelling alternatives, we should rather reflect on the difference between both of these answers on the one hand, and some utterly unreasonable answer on the other—such as deciding a property dispute on the basis of which claimant is louder. The acknowledgment that conflicting values can exist, then, does not have the far-reaching implications imputed by CLS; even if some answer to a problem is not the only answer, opting for it can still be reasonable. Last, Meyerson takes issue with the CLS charge that legal formalism, the belief that there is a quasi-deductive method capable of giving solutions to problems of legal choice, requires objectivism, the belief that the legal process has moral authority. Meyerson claims that showing the law to be unambiguous does not demonstrate its legitimacy: consider a game in which participants compete to steal the item of highest value from a shop; while a person may easily identify the winner in terms of the rules, it does not follow that the person endorses the rules of the game. A CLS scholar might object that legal cases are unlike games, in that one cannot merely apply the rules without appealing to, and therefore endorsing, external considerations of purpose, policy, and value. But Meyerson replies that such considerations may be viewed as part of, not separate from, the rules of the game.

199912_3-RC_3_16

The primary purpose of the reference to a game in the last paragraph is to

Philosopher Denise Meyerson views the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement as seeking to debunk orthodox legal theory by exposing its contradictions. However, Meyerson argues that CLS proponents tend to see contradictions where none exist, and that CLS overrates the threat that conflict poses to orthodox legal theory. According to Meyerson, CLS proponents hold that the existence of conflicting values in the law implies the absence of any uniquely right solution to legal cases. CLS argues that these conflicting values generate equally plausible but opposing answers to any given legal question, and, consequently, that the choice between the conflicting answers must necessarily be arbitrary or irrational. Meyerson denies that the existence of conflicting values makes a case irresolvable, and asserts that at least some such cases can be resolved by ranking the conflicting values. For example, a lawyer's obligation to preserve a client's confidences may entail harming other parties, thus violating moral principle. This conflict can be resolved if it can be shown that in certain cases the professional obligation overrides ordinary moral obligations. In addition, says Meyerson, even when the two solutions are equally compelling, it does not follow that the choice between them must be irrational. On the contrary, a solution that is not rationally required need not be unreasonable. Meyerson concurs with another critic that instead of concentrating on the choice between two compelling alternatives, we should rather reflect on the difference between both of these answers on the one hand, and some utterly unreasonable answer on the other—such as deciding a property dispute on the basis of which claimant is louder. The acknowledgment that conflicting values can exist, then, does not have the far-reaching implications imputed by CLS; even if some answer to a problem is not the only answer, opting for it can still be reasonable. Last, Meyerson takes issue with the CLS charge that legal formalism, the belief that there is a quasi-deductive method capable of giving solutions to problems of legal choice, requires objectivism, the belief that the legal process has moral authority. Meyerson claims that showing the law to be unambiguous does not demonstrate its legitimacy: consider a game in which participants compete to steal the item of highest value from a shop; while a person may easily identify the winner in terms of the rules, it does not follow that the person endorses the rules of the game. A CLS scholar might object that legal cases are unlike games, in that one cannot merely apply the rules without appealing to, and therefore endorsing, external considerations of purpose, policy, and value. But Meyerson replies that such considerations may be viewed as part of, not separate from, the rules of the game.

199912_3-RC_3_17

The author's primary purpose in the passage is to

Philosopher Denise Meyerson views the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement as seeking to debunk orthodox legal theory by exposing its contradictions. However, Meyerson argues that CLS proponents tend to see contradictions where none exist, and that CLS overrates the threat that conflict poses to orthodox legal theory. According to Meyerson, CLS proponents hold that the existence of conflicting values in the law implies the absence of any uniquely right solution to legal cases. CLS argues that these conflicting values generate equally plausible but opposing answers to any given legal question, and, consequently, that the choice between the conflicting answers must necessarily be arbitrary or irrational. Meyerson denies that the existence of conflicting values makes a case irresolvable, and asserts that at least some such cases can be resolved by ranking the conflicting values. For example, a lawyer's obligation to preserve a client's confidences may entail harming other parties, thus violating moral principle. This conflict can be resolved if it can be shown that in certain cases the professional obligation overrides ordinary moral obligations. In addition, says Meyerson, even when the two solutions are equally compelling, it does not follow that the choice between them must be irrational. On the contrary, a solution that is not rationally required need not be unreasonable. Meyerson concurs with another critic that instead of concentrating on the choice between two compelling alternatives, we should rather reflect on the difference between both of these answers on the one hand, and some utterly unreasonable answer on the other—such as deciding a property dispute on the basis of which claimant is louder. The acknowledgment that conflicting values can exist, then, does not have the far-reaching implications imputed by CLS; even if some answer to a problem is not the only answer, opting for it can still be reasonable. Last, Meyerson takes issue with the CLS charge that legal formalism, the belief that there is a quasi-deductive method capable of giving solutions to problems of legal choice, requires objectivism, the belief that the legal process has moral authority. Meyerson claims that showing the law to be unambiguous does not demonstrate its legitimacy: consider a game in which participants compete to steal the item of highest value from a shop; while a person may easily identify the winner in terms of the rules, it does not follow that the person endorses the rules of the game. A CLS scholar might object that legal cases are unlike games, in that one cannot merely apply the rules without appealing to, and therefore endorsing, external considerations of purpose, policy, and value. But Meyerson replies that such considerations may be viewed as part of, not separate from, the rules of the game.

199912_3-RC_3_18

It can be inferred from the passage that Meyerson would be most likely to agree with which one of the following statements about "external considerations" (line 53)?

Philosopher Denise Meyerson views the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement as seeking to debunk orthodox legal theory by exposing its contradictions. However, Meyerson argues that CLS proponents tend to see contradictions where none exist, and that CLS overrates the threat that conflict poses to orthodox legal theory. According to Meyerson, CLS proponents hold that the existence of conflicting values in the law implies the absence of any uniquely right solution to legal cases. CLS argues that these conflicting values generate equally plausible but opposing answers to any given legal question, and, consequently, that the choice between the conflicting answers must necessarily be arbitrary or irrational. Meyerson denies that the existence of conflicting values makes a case irresolvable, and asserts that at least some such cases can be resolved by ranking the conflicting values. For example, a lawyer's obligation to preserve a client's confidences may entail harming other parties, thus violating moral principle. This conflict can be resolved if it can be shown that in certain cases the professional obligation overrides ordinary moral obligations. In addition, says Meyerson, even when the two solutions are equally compelling, it does not follow that the choice between them must be irrational. On the contrary, a solution that is not rationally required need not be unreasonable. Meyerson concurs with another critic that instead of concentrating on the choice between two compelling alternatives, we should rather reflect on the difference between both of these answers on the one hand, and some utterly unreasonable answer on the other—such as deciding a property dispute on the basis of which claimant is louder. The acknowledgment that conflicting values can exist, then, does not have the far-reaching implications imputed by CLS; even if some answer to a problem is not the only answer, opting for it can still be reasonable. Last, Meyerson takes issue with the CLS charge that legal formalism, the belief that there is a quasi-deductive method capable of giving solutions to problems of legal choice, requires objectivism, the belief that the legal process has moral authority. Meyerson claims that showing the law to be unambiguous does not demonstrate its legitimacy: consider a game in which participants compete to steal the item of highest value from a shop; while a person may easily identify the winner in terms of the rules, it does not follow that the person endorses the rules of the game. A CLS scholar might object that legal cases are unlike games, in that one cannot merely apply the rules without appealing to, and therefore endorsing, external considerations of purpose, policy, and value. But Meyerson replies that such considerations may be viewed as part of, not separate from, the rules of the game.

199912_3-RC_3_19

The phrase "far-reaching implications" (line 36) refers to the idea that

Philosopher Denise Meyerson views the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement as seeking to debunk orthodox legal theory by exposing its contradictions. However, Meyerson argues that CLS proponents tend to see contradictions where none exist, and that CLS overrates the threat that conflict poses to orthodox legal theory. According to Meyerson, CLS proponents hold that the existence of conflicting values in the law implies the absence of any uniquely right solution to legal cases. CLS argues that these conflicting values generate equally plausible but opposing answers to any given legal question, and, consequently, that the choice between the conflicting answers must necessarily be arbitrary or irrational. Meyerson denies that the existence of conflicting values makes a case irresolvable, and asserts that at least some such cases can be resolved by ranking the conflicting values. For example, a lawyer's obligation to preserve a client's confidences may entail harming other parties, thus violating moral principle. This conflict can be resolved if it can be shown that in certain cases the professional obligation overrides ordinary moral obligations. In addition, says Meyerson, even when the two solutions are equally compelling, it does not follow that the choice between them must be irrational. On the contrary, a solution that is not rationally required need not be unreasonable. Meyerson concurs with another critic that instead of concentrating on the choice between two compelling alternatives, we should rather reflect on the difference between both of these answers on the one hand, and some utterly unreasonable answer on the other—such as deciding a property dispute on the basis of which claimant is louder. The acknowledgment that conflicting values can exist, then, does not have the far-reaching implications imputed by CLS; even if some answer to a problem is not the only answer, opting for it can still be reasonable. Last, Meyerson takes issue with the CLS charge that legal formalism, the belief that there is a quasi-deductive method capable of giving solutions to problems of legal choice, requires objectivism, the belief that the legal process has moral authority. Meyerson claims that showing the law to be unambiguous does not demonstrate its legitimacy: consider a game in which participants compete to steal the item of highest value from a shop; while a person may easily identify the winner in terms of the rules, it does not follow that the person endorses the rules of the game. A CLS scholar might object that legal cases are unlike games, in that one cannot merely apply the rules without appealing to, and therefore endorsing, external considerations of purpose, policy, and value. But Meyerson replies that such considerations may be viewed as part of, not separate from, the rules of the game.

199912_3-RC_3_20

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

Philosopher Denise Meyerson views the Critical Legal Studies (CLS) movement as seeking to debunk orthodox legal theory by exposing its contradictions. However, Meyerson argues that CLS proponents tend to see contradictions where none exist, and that CLS overrates the threat that conflict poses to orthodox legal theory. According to Meyerson, CLS proponents hold that the existence of conflicting values in the law implies the absence of any uniquely right solution to legal cases. CLS argues that these conflicting values generate equally plausible but opposing answers to any given legal question, and, consequently, that the choice between the conflicting answers must necessarily be arbitrary or irrational. Meyerson denies that the existence of conflicting values makes a case irresolvable, and asserts that at least some such cases can be resolved by ranking the conflicting values. For example, a lawyer's obligation to preserve a client's confidences may entail harming other parties, thus violating moral principle. This conflict can be resolved if it can be shown that in certain cases the professional obligation overrides ordinary moral obligations. In addition, says Meyerson, even when the two solutions are equally compelling, it does not follow that the choice between them must be irrational. On the contrary, a solution that is not rationally required need not be unreasonable. Meyerson concurs with another critic that instead of concentrating on the choice between two compelling alternatives, we should rather reflect on the difference between both of these answers on the one hand, and some utterly unreasonable answer on the other—such as deciding a property dispute on the basis of which claimant is louder. The acknowledgment that conflicting values can exist, then, does not have the far-reaching implications imputed by CLS; even if some answer to a problem is not the only answer, opting for it can still be reasonable. Last, Meyerson takes issue with the CLS charge that legal formalism, the belief that there is a quasi-deductive method capable of giving solutions to problems of legal choice, requires objectivism, the belief that the legal process has moral authority. Meyerson claims that showing the law to be unambiguous does not demonstrate its legitimacy: consider a game in which participants compete to steal the item of highest value from a shop; while a person may easily identify the winner in terms of the rules, it does not follow that the person endorses the rules of the game. A CLS scholar might object that legal cases are unlike games, in that one cannot merely apply the rules without appealing to, and therefore endorsing, external considerations of purpose, policy, and value. But Meyerson replies that such considerations may be viewed as part of, not separate from, the rules of the game.

199912_3-RC_3_21

It can be inferred from the passage that proponents of the Critical Legal Studies movement would be most likely to hold which one of the following views about the law?

While historians once propagated the myth that Africans who were brought to the New World as slaves contributed little of value but their labor, a recent study by Amelia Wallace Vernon helps to dispel this notion by showing that Africans introduced rice and the methods of cultivating it into what is now the United States in the early eighteenth century. She uncovered, for example, an 1876 document that details that in 1718 starving French settlers instructed the captain of a slave ship bound for Africa to trade for 400 Africans including some "who know how to cultivate rice." This discovery is especially compelling because the introduction of rice into what is now the United States had previously been attributed to French Acadians, who did not arrive until the 1760s. Vernon interviewed elderly African Americans who helped her discover the locations where until about 1920 their forebears had cultivated rice. At the heart of Vernon's research is the question of why, in an economy dedicated to maximizing cotton production, African Americans grew rice. She proposes two intriguing answers, depending on whether the time is before of after the end of slavery. During the period of slavery, plantation owners also ate rice and therefore tolerated or demanded its "after-hours" cultivation on patches of land not suited to cotton. In addition, growing the rice gave the slaves some relief from a system of regimented labor under a field supervisor, in that they were left alone to work independently. After the abolition of slavery, however, rice cultivation is more difficult to explain: African Americans had acquired a preference for eating corn, there was no market for the small amounts of rice they produced, and under the tenant system—in which farmers surrendered a portion of their crops to the owners of the land they farmed—owners wanted only cotton as payment. The labor required to transform unused land to productive ground would thus seem completely out of proportion to the reward—except that, according to Vernon, the transforming of the land itself was the point. Vernon suggests that these African Americans did not transform the land as a means to an end, but rather as an end in itself. In other words, they did not transform the land in order to grow rice—for the resulting rice was scarcely worth the effort required to clear the land—but instead transformed the land because they viewed land as an extension of self and home and so wished to nurture it and make it their own. In addition to this cultural explanation, Vernon speculates that rice cultivation might also have been a political act, a next step after the emancipation of the slaves: the symbolic claiming of plantation land that the U.S. government had promised but failed to parcel off and deed to newly freed African Americans.

199912_3-RC_4_22

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

While historians once propagated the myth that Africans who were brought to the New World as slaves contributed little of value but their labor, a recent study by Amelia Wallace Vernon helps to dispel this notion by showing that Africans introduced rice and the methods of cultivating it into what is now the United States in the early eighteenth century. She uncovered, for example, an 1876 document that details that in 1718 starving French settlers instructed the captain of a slave ship bound for Africa to trade for 400 Africans including some "who know how to cultivate rice." This discovery is especially compelling because the introduction of rice into what is now the United States had previously been attributed to French Acadians, who did not arrive until the 1760s. Vernon interviewed elderly African Americans who helped her discover the locations where until about 1920 their forebears had cultivated rice. At the heart of Vernon's research is the question of why, in an economy dedicated to maximizing cotton production, African Americans grew rice. She proposes two intriguing answers, depending on whether the time is before of after the end of slavery. During the period of slavery, plantation owners also ate rice and therefore tolerated or demanded its "after-hours" cultivation on patches of land not suited to cotton. In addition, growing the rice gave the slaves some relief from a system of regimented labor under a field supervisor, in that they were left alone to work independently. After the abolition of slavery, however, rice cultivation is more difficult to explain: African Americans had acquired a preference for eating corn, there was no market for the small amounts of rice they produced, and under the tenant system—in which farmers surrendered a portion of their crops to the owners of the land they farmed—owners wanted only cotton as payment. The labor required to transform unused land to productive ground would thus seem completely out of proportion to the reward—except that, according to Vernon, the transforming of the land itself was the point. Vernon suggests that these African Americans did not transform the land as a means to an end, but rather as an end in itself. In other words, they did not transform the land in order to grow rice—for the resulting rice was scarcely worth the effort required to clear the land—but instead transformed the land because they viewed land as an extension of self and home and so wished to nurture it and make it their own. In addition to this cultural explanation, Vernon speculates that rice cultivation might also have been a political act, a next step after the emancipation of the slaves: the symbolic claiming of plantation land that the U.S. government had promised but failed to parcel off and deed to newly freed African Americans.

199912_3-RC_4_23

Which one of the following most completely and accurately describes the author's attitude toward Vernon's study?

While historians once propagated the myth that Africans who were brought to the New World as slaves contributed little of value but their labor, a recent study by Amelia Wallace Vernon helps to dispel this notion by showing that Africans introduced rice and the methods of cultivating it into what is now the United States in the early eighteenth century. She uncovered, for example, an 1876 document that details that in 1718 starving French settlers instructed the captain of a slave ship bound for Africa to trade for 400 Africans including some "who know how to cultivate rice." This discovery is especially compelling because the introduction of rice into what is now the United States had previously been attributed to French Acadians, who did not arrive until the 1760s. Vernon interviewed elderly African Americans who helped her discover the locations where until about 1920 their forebears had cultivated rice. At the heart of Vernon's research is the question of why, in an economy dedicated to maximizing cotton production, African Americans grew rice. She proposes two intriguing answers, depending on whether the time is before of after the end of slavery. During the period of slavery, plantation owners also ate rice and therefore tolerated or demanded its "after-hours" cultivation on patches of land not suited to cotton. In addition, growing the rice gave the slaves some relief from a system of regimented labor under a field supervisor, in that they were left alone to work independently. After the abolition of slavery, however, rice cultivation is more difficult to explain: African Americans had acquired a preference for eating corn, there was no market for the small amounts of rice they produced, and under the tenant system—in which farmers surrendered a portion of their crops to the owners of the land they farmed—owners wanted only cotton as payment. The labor required to transform unused land to productive ground would thus seem completely out of proportion to the reward—except that, according to Vernon, the transforming of the land itself was the point. Vernon suggests that these African Americans did not transform the land as a means to an end, but rather as an end in itself. In other words, they did not transform the land in order to grow rice—for the resulting rice was scarcely worth the effort required to clear the land—but instead transformed the land because they viewed land as an extension of self and home and so wished to nurture it and make it their own. In addition to this cultural explanation, Vernon speculates that rice cultivation might also have been a political act, a next step after the emancipation of the slaves: the symbolic claiming of plantation land that the U.S. government had promised but failed to parcel off and deed to newly freed African Americans.

199912_3-RC_4_24

As described in the last paragraph of the passage, rice cultivation after slavery is most analogous to which one of the following?

While historians once propagated the myth that Africans who were brought to the New World as slaves contributed little of value but their labor, a recent study by Amelia Wallace Vernon helps to dispel this notion by showing that Africans introduced rice and the methods of cultivating it into what is now the United States in the early eighteenth century. She uncovered, for example, an 1876 document that details that in 1718 starving French settlers instructed the captain of a slave ship bound for Africa to trade for 400 Africans including some "who know how to cultivate rice." This discovery is especially compelling because the introduction of rice into what is now the United States had previously been attributed to French Acadians, who did not arrive until the 1760s. Vernon interviewed elderly African Americans who helped her discover the locations where until about 1920 their forebears had cultivated rice. At the heart of Vernon's research is the question of why, in an economy dedicated to maximizing cotton production, African Americans grew rice. She proposes two intriguing answers, depending on whether the time is before of after the end of slavery. During the period of slavery, plantation owners also ate rice and therefore tolerated or demanded its "after-hours" cultivation on patches of land not suited to cotton. In addition, growing the rice gave the slaves some relief from a system of regimented labor under a field supervisor, in that they were left alone to work independently. After the abolition of slavery, however, rice cultivation is more difficult to explain: African Americans had acquired a preference for eating corn, there was no market for the small amounts of rice they produced, and under the tenant system—in which farmers surrendered a portion of their crops to the owners of the land they farmed—owners wanted only cotton as payment. The labor required to transform unused land to productive ground would thus seem completely out of proportion to the reward—except that, according to Vernon, the transforming of the land itself was the point. Vernon suggests that these African Americans did not transform the land as a means to an end, but rather as an end in itself. In other words, they did not transform the land in order to grow rice—for the resulting rice was scarcely worth the effort required to clear the land—but instead transformed the land because they viewed land as an extension of self and home and so wished to nurture it and make it their own. In addition to this cultural explanation, Vernon speculates that rice cultivation might also have been a political act, a next step after the emancipation of the slaves: the symbolic claiming of plantation land that the U.S. government had promised but failed to parcel off and deed to newly freed African Americans.

199912_3-RC_4_25

Which one of the following most completely and accurately describes the organization of the passage?

While historians once propagated the myth that Africans who were brought to the New World as slaves contributed little of value but their labor, a recent study by Amelia Wallace Vernon helps to dispel this notion by showing that Africans introduced rice and the methods of cultivating it into what is now the United States in the early eighteenth century. She uncovered, for example, an 1876 document that details that in 1718 starving French settlers instructed the captain of a slave ship bound for Africa to trade for 400 Africans including some "who know how to cultivate rice." This discovery is especially compelling because the introduction of rice into what is now the United States had previously been attributed to French Acadians, who did not arrive until the 1760s. Vernon interviewed elderly African Americans who helped her discover the locations where until about 1920 their forebears had cultivated rice. At the heart of Vernon's research is the question of why, in an economy dedicated to maximizing cotton production, African Americans grew rice. She proposes two intriguing answers, depending on whether the time is before of after the end of slavery. During the period of slavery, plantation owners also ate rice and therefore tolerated or demanded its "after-hours" cultivation on patches of land not suited to cotton. In addition, growing the rice gave the slaves some relief from a system of regimented labor under a field supervisor, in that they were left alone to work independently. After the abolition of slavery, however, rice cultivation is more difficult to explain: African Americans had acquired a preference for eating corn, there was no market for the small amounts of rice they produced, and under the tenant system—in which farmers surrendered a portion of their crops to the owners of the land they farmed—owners wanted only cotton as payment. The labor required to transform unused land to productive ground would thus seem completely out of proportion to the reward—except that, according to Vernon, the transforming of the land itself was the point. Vernon suggests that these African Americans did not transform the land as a means to an end, but rather as an end in itself. In other words, they did not transform the land in order to grow rice—for the resulting rice was scarcely worth the effort required to clear the land—but instead transformed the land because they viewed land as an extension of self and home and so wished to nurture it and make it their own. In addition to this cultural explanation, Vernon speculates that rice cultivation might also have been a political act, a next step after the emancipation of the slaves: the symbolic claiming of plantation land that the U.S. government had promised but failed to parcel off and deed to newly freed African Americans.

199912_3-RC_4_26

The passage cites which one of the following as a reason that rice cultivation in the context of the tenant system was difficult to explain?

While historians once propagated the myth that Africans who were brought to the New World as slaves contributed little of value but their labor, a recent study by Amelia Wallace Vernon helps to dispel this notion by showing that Africans introduced rice and the methods of cultivating it into what is now the United States in the early eighteenth century. She uncovered, for example, an 1876 document that details that in 1718 starving French settlers instructed the captain of a slave ship bound for Africa to trade for 400 Africans including some "who know how to cultivate rice." This discovery is especially compelling because the introduction of rice into what is now the United States had previously been attributed to French Acadians, who did not arrive until the 1760s. Vernon interviewed elderly African Americans who helped her discover the locations where until about 1920 their forebears had cultivated rice. At the heart of Vernon's research is the question of why, in an economy dedicated to maximizing cotton production, African Americans grew rice. She proposes two intriguing answers, depending on whether the time is before of after the end of slavery. During the period of slavery, plantation owners also ate rice and therefore tolerated or demanded its "after-hours" cultivation on patches of land not suited to cotton. In addition, growing the rice gave the slaves some relief from a system of regimented labor under a field supervisor, in that they were left alone to work independently. After the abolition of slavery, however, rice cultivation is more difficult to explain: African Americans had acquired a preference for eating corn, there was no market for the small amounts of rice they produced, and under the tenant system—in which farmers surrendered a portion of their crops to the owners of the land they farmed—owners wanted only cotton as payment. The labor required to transform unused land to productive ground would thus seem completely out of proportion to the reward—except that, according to Vernon, the transforming of the land itself was the point. Vernon suggests that these African Americans did not transform the land as a means to an end, but rather as an end in itself. In other words, they did not transform the land in order to grow rice—for the resulting rice was scarcely worth the effort required to clear the land—but instead transformed the land because they viewed land as an extension of self and home and so wished to nurture it and make it their own. In addition to this cultural explanation, Vernon speculates that rice cultivation might also have been a political act, a next step after the emancipation of the slaves: the symbolic claiming of plantation land that the U.S. government had promised but failed to parcel off and deed to newly freed African Americans.

199912_3-RC_4_27

The author's primary purpose in the passage is to

Naturalists have long studied the ability of North American forest birds to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures in winter. For example, nuthatches sleep in cavities such as tree hollows or holes dug into snowdrifts, retaining heat closer to the body and thus saving energy by reducing the need for shivering. Chickadees induce torpor, saving energy by allowing their body temperatures to decline drastically. Grosbeaks stay close to trees whose seeds contain sufficient fat to fuel shivering. But the survival of one species, the kinglet, remains something of a mystery. There are two reasons for this. First, although kinglets are tiny—about 9 cm long including the tail— they maintain extremely high body temperatures at conditions well below freezing. According to the physical laws of heating and cooling, kinglets would lose heat at a rate about 75 percent faster than birds twice their mass—chickadees, for example—and so would have to consume and burn 75 percent more food per unit of body mass than the larger birds to maintain the same body temperature. The insulation provided by feathers, which, similarly to other northern birds, make up about 25 percent of the kinglet's mass, accounts for some of its heat-retaining capability but does not explain how kinglets manage to survive as well in cold climates as do the larger birds. Because smaller birds have a lesser absolute amount of insulation than larger birds, they would cool even faster than predicted by body mass alone. The second reason kinglet survival is so remarkable is that, unlike most bird species that remain in cold climates during winter, their diet consists exclusively of insects. Researchers wonder how it is possible for kinglets, birds that do not cache food and are known not to forage at night, to gather and consume the necessary amount of insects each short winter day. The question is more vexing considering that a kinglet's stomach when filled to capacity contains only enough food to keep it warm for one hour. A partial explanation is that kinglets store fat; kinglet body fat can triple in the course of a day. Nevertheless, this increase accounts for only about half the energy needed to maintain the kinglet's body temperature overnight. Researchers once theorized that torpor might make up the difference, but found no evidence of torpor in kinglets. Another theory, which is still untested but which may be borne out by a recent study of goldcrests, a related species, is that kinglets cluster together at night. Kinglets flock in groups of twos and threes during the day; while such small groups alone could not maintain such high body temperatures, it is hypothesized that after nightfall several groups in a region may find each other by means of calling and consolidate in a central location.

200002_4-RC_1_1

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

Naturalists have long studied the ability of North American forest birds to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures in winter. For example, nuthatches sleep in cavities such as tree hollows or holes dug into snowdrifts, retaining heat closer to the body and thus saving energy by reducing the need for shivering. Chickadees induce torpor, saving energy by allowing their body temperatures to decline drastically. Grosbeaks stay close to trees whose seeds contain sufficient fat to fuel shivering. But the survival of one species, the kinglet, remains something of a mystery. There are two reasons for this. First, although kinglets are tiny—about 9 cm long including the tail— they maintain extremely high body temperatures at conditions well below freezing. According to the physical laws of heating and cooling, kinglets would lose heat at a rate about 75 percent faster than birds twice their mass—chickadees, for example—and so would have to consume and burn 75 percent more food per unit of body mass than the larger birds to maintain the same body temperature. The insulation provided by feathers, which, similarly to other northern birds, make up about 25 percent of the kinglet's mass, accounts for some of its heat-retaining capability but does not explain how kinglets manage to survive as well in cold climates as do the larger birds. Because smaller birds have a lesser absolute amount of insulation than larger birds, they would cool even faster than predicted by body mass alone. The second reason kinglet survival is so remarkable is that, unlike most bird species that remain in cold climates during winter, their diet consists exclusively of insects. Researchers wonder how it is possible for kinglets, birds that do not cache food and are known not to forage at night, to gather and consume the necessary amount of insects each short winter day. The question is more vexing considering that a kinglet's stomach when filled to capacity contains only enough food to keep it warm for one hour. A partial explanation is that kinglets store fat; kinglet body fat can triple in the course of a day. Nevertheless, this increase accounts for only about half the energy needed to maintain the kinglet's body temperature overnight. Researchers once theorized that torpor might make up the difference, but found no evidence of torpor in kinglets. Another theory, which is still untested but which may be borne out by a recent study of goldcrests, a related species, is that kinglets cluster together at night. Kinglets flock in groups of twos and threes during the day; while such small groups alone could not maintain such high body temperatures, it is hypothesized that after nightfall several groups in a region may find each other by means of calling and consolidate in a central location.

200002_4-RC_1_2

Which one of the following generalizations best captures the reasoning behind the rejection of the theory that torpor explains the kinglet's ability to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures?

Naturalists have long studied the ability of North American forest birds to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures in winter. For example, nuthatches sleep in cavities such as tree hollows or holes dug into snowdrifts, retaining heat closer to the body and thus saving energy by reducing the need for shivering. Chickadees induce torpor, saving energy by allowing their body temperatures to decline drastically. Grosbeaks stay close to trees whose seeds contain sufficient fat to fuel shivering. But the survival of one species, the kinglet, remains something of a mystery. There are two reasons for this. First, although kinglets are tiny—about 9 cm long including the tail— they maintain extremely high body temperatures at conditions well below freezing. According to the physical laws of heating and cooling, kinglets would lose heat at a rate about 75 percent faster than birds twice their mass—chickadees, for example—and so would have to consume and burn 75 percent more food per unit of body mass than the larger birds to maintain the same body temperature. The insulation provided by feathers, which, similarly to other northern birds, make up about 25 percent of the kinglet's mass, accounts for some of its heat-retaining capability but does not explain how kinglets manage to survive as well in cold climates as do the larger birds. Because smaller birds have a lesser absolute amount of insulation than larger birds, they would cool even faster than predicted by body mass alone. The second reason kinglet survival is so remarkable is that, unlike most bird species that remain in cold climates during winter, their diet consists exclusively of insects. Researchers wonder how it is possible for kinglets, birds that do not cache food and are known not to forage at night, to gather and consume the necessary amount of insects each short winter day. The question is more vexing considering that a kinglet's stomach when filled to capacity contains only enough food to keep it warm for one hour. A partial explanation is that kinglets store fat; kinglet body fat can triple in the course of a day. Nevertheless, this increase accounts for only about half the energy needed to maintain the kinglet's body temperature overnight. Researchers once theorized that torpor might make up the difference, but found no evidence of torpor in kinglets. Another theory, which is still untested but which may be borne out by a recent study of goldcrests, a related species, is that kinglets cluster together at night. Kinglets flock in groups of twos and threes during the day; while such small groups alone could not maintain such high body temperatures, it is hypothesized that after nightfall several groups in a region may find each other by means of calling and consolidate in a central location.

200002_4-RC_1_3

According to the passage, the physical laws of heating and cooling suggest that in order to maintain body temperature in winter, kinglets must

Naturalists have long studied the ability of North American forest birds to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures in winter. For example, nuthatches sleep in cavities such as tree hollows or holes dug into snowdrifts, retaining heat closer to the body and thus saving energy by reducing the need for shivering. Chickadees induce torpor, saving energy by allowing their body temperatures to decline drastically. Grosbeaks stay close to trees whose seeds contain sufficient fat to fuel shivering. But the survival of one species, the kinglet, remains something of a mystery. There are two reasons for this. First, although kinglets are tiny—about 9 cm long including the tail— they maintain extremely high body temperatures at conditions well below freezing. According to the physical laws of heating and cooling, kinglets would lose heat at a rate about 75 percent faster than birds twice their mass—chickadees, for example—and so would have to consume and burn 75 percent more food per unit of body mass than the larger birds to maintain the same body temperature. The insulation provided by feathers, which, similarly to other northern birds, make up about 25 percent of the kinglet's mass, accounts for some of its heat-retaining capability but does not explain how kinglets manage to survive as well in cold climates as do the larger birds. Because smaller birds have a lesser absolute amount of insulation than larger birds, they would cool even faster than predicted by body mass alone. The second reason kinglet survival is so remarkable is that, unlike most bird species that remain in cold climates during winter, their diet consists exclusively of insects. Researchers wonder how it is possible for kinglets, birds that do not cache food and are known not to forage at night, to gather and consume the necessary amount of insects each short winter day. The question is more vexing considering that a kinglet's stomach when filled to capacity contains only enough food to keep it warm for one hour. A partial explanation is that kinglets store fat; kinglet body fat can triple in the course of a day. Nevertheless, this increase accounts for only about half the energy needed to maintain the kinglet's body temperature overnight. Researchers once theorized that torpor might make up the difference, but found no evidence of torpor in kinglets. Another theory, which is still untested but which may be borne out by a recent study of goldcrests, a related species, is that kinglets cluster together at night. Kinglets flock in groups of twos and threes during the day; while such small groups alone could not maintain such high body temperatures, it is hypothesized that after nightfall several groups in a region may find each other by means of calling and consolidate in a central location.

200002_4-RC_1_4

The passage suggests that the author most likely regards the hypothesis that groups of kinglets cluster together on cold winter nights as

Naturalists have long studied the ability of North American forest birds to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures in winter. For example, nuthatches sleep in cavities such as tree hollows or holes dug into snowdrifts, retaining heat closer to the body and thus saving energy by reducing the need for shivering. Chickadees induce torpor, saving energy by allowing their body temperatures to decline drastically. Grosbeaks stay close to trees whose seeds contain sufficient fat to fuel shivering. But the survival of one species, the kinglet, remains something of a mystery. There are two reasons for this. First, although kinglets are tiny—about 9 cm long including the tail— they maintain extremely high body temperatures at conditions well below freezing. According to the physical laws of heating and cooling, kinglets would lose heat at a rate about 75 percent faster than birds twice their mass—chickadees, for example—and so would have to consume and burn 75 percent more food per unit of body mass than the larger birds to maintain the same body temperature. The insulation provided by feathers, which, similarly to other northern birds, make up about 25 percent of the kinglet's mass, accounts for some of its heat-retaining capability but does not explain how kinglets manage to survive as well in cold climates as do the larger birds. Because smaller birds have a lesser absolute amount of insulation than larger birds, they would cool even faster than predicted by body mass alone. The second reason kinglet survival is so remarkable is that, unlike most bird species that remain in cold climates during winter, their diet consists exclusively of insects. Researchers wonder how it is possible for kinglets, birds that do not cache food and are known not to forage at night, to gather and consume the necessary amount of insects each short winter day. The question is more vexing considering that a kinglet's stomach when filled to capacity contains only enough food to keep it warm for one hour. A partial explanation is that kinglets store fat; kinglet body fat can triple in the course of a day. Nevertheless, this increase accounts for only about half the energy needed to maintain the kinglet's body temperature overnight. Researchers once theorized that torpor might make up the difference, but found no evidence of torpor in kinglets. Another theory, which is still untested but which may be borne out by a recent study of goldcrests, a related species, is that kinglets cluster together at night. Kinglets flock in groups of twos and threes during the day; while such small groups alone could not maintain such high body temperatures, it is hypothesized that after nightfall several groups in a region may find each other by means of calling and consolidate in a central location.

200002_4-RC_1_5

The author cites all of the following as contributing to the mystery of kinglet survival in extremely cold overnight winter temperatures EXCEPT:

Naturalists have long studied the ability of North American forest birds to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures in winter. For example, nuthatches sleep in cavities such as tree hollows or holes dug into snowdrifts, retaining heat closer to the body and thus saving energy by reducing the need for shivering. Chickadees induce torpor, saving energy by allowing their body temperatures to decline drastically. Grosbeaks stay close to trees whose seeds contain sufficient fat to fuel shivering. But the survival of one species, the kinglet, remains something of a mystery. There are two reasons for this. First, although kinglets are tiny—about 9 cm long including the tail— they maintain extremely high body temperatures at conditions well below freezing. According to the physical laws of heating and cooling, kinglets would lose heat at a rate about 75 percent faster than birds twice their mass—chickadees, for example—and so would have to consume and burn 75 percent more food per unit of body mass than the larger birds to maintain the same body temperature. The insulation provided by feathers, which, similarly to other northern birds, make up about 25 percent of the kinglet's mass, accounts for some of its heat-retaining capability but does not explain how kinglets manage to survive as well in cold climates as do the larger birds. Because smaller birds have a lesser absolute amount of insulation than larger birds, they would cool even faster than predicted by body mass alone. The second reason kinglet survival is so remarkable is that, unlike most bird species that remain in cold climates during winter, their diet consists exclusively of insects. Researchers wonder how it is possible for kinglets, birds that do not cache food and are known not to forage at night, to gather and consume the necessary amount of insects each short winter day. The question is more vexing considering that a kinglet's stomach when filled to capacity contains only enough food to keep it warm for one hour. A partial explanation is that kinglets store fat; kinglet body fat can triple in the course of a day. Nevertheless, this increase accounts for only about half the energy needed to maintain the kinglet's body temperature overnight. Researchers once theorized that torpor might make up the difference, but found no evidence of torpor in kinglets. Another theory, which is still untested but which may be borne out by a recent study of goldcrests, a related species, is that kinglets cluster together at night. Kinglets flock in groups of twos and threes during the day; while such small groups alone could not maintain such high body temperatures, it is hypothesized that after nightfall several groups in a region may find each other by means of calling and consolidate in a central location.

200002_4-RC_1_6

The author mentions nuthatches, chickadees, and grosbeaks primarily to

Naturalists have long studied the ability of North American forest birds to survive extremely cold overnight temperatures in winter. For example, nuthatches sleep in cavities such as tree hollows or holes dug into snowdrifts, retaining heat closer to the body and thus saving energy by reducing the need for shivering. Chickadees induce torpor, saving energy by allowing their body temperatures to decline drastically. Grosbeaks stay close to trees whose seeds contain sufficient fat to fuel shivering. But the survival of one species, the kinglet, remains something of a mystery. There are two reasons for this. First, although kinglets are tiny—about 9 cm long including the tail— they maintain extremely high body temperatures at conditions well below freezing. According to the physical laws of heating and cooling, kinglets would lose heat at a rate about 75 percent faster than birds twice their mass—chickadees, for example—and so would have to consume and burn 75 percent more food per unit of body mass than the larger birds to maintain the same body temperature. The insulation provided by feathers, which, similarly to other northern birds, make up about 25 percent of the kinglet's mass, accounts for some of its heat-retaining capability but does not explain how kinglets manage to survive as well in cold climates as do the larger birds. Because smaller birds have a lesser absolute amount of insulation than larger birds, they would cool even faster than predicted by body mass alone. The second reason kinglet survival is so remarkable is that, unlike most bird species that remain in cold climates during winter, their diet consists exclusively of insects. Researchers wonder how it is possible for kinglets, birds that do not cache food and are known not to forage at night, to gather and consume the necessary amount of insects each short winter day. The question is more vexing considering that a kinglet's stomach when filled to capacity contains only enough food to keep it warm for one hour. A partial explanation is that kinglets store fat; kinglet body fat can triple in the course of a day. Nevertheless, this increase accounts for only about half the energy needed to maintain the kinglet's body temperature overnight. Researchers once theorized that torpor might make up the difference, but found no evidence of torpor in kinglets. Another theory, which is still untested but which may be borne out by a recent study of goldcrests, a related species, is that kinglets cluster together at night. Kinglets flock in groups of twos and threes during the day; while such small groups alone could not maintain such high body temperatures, it is hypothesized that after nightfall several groups in a region may find each other by means of calling and consolidate in a central location.

200002_4-RC_1_7

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

Much of mainstream thinking concerning juvenile delinquency in Canada and the United States is based on the assumption that if uncorrected it automatically leads to adult crime and should thus be severely punished, usually by some form of incarceration, before it becomes an ingrained behavior pattern. While there is some connection between juvenile delinquency and adult criminality, some criminologists argue that this can actually be explained by the actions of the justice system itself: research by these criminologists suggests that incarceration may have the perverse effect of ensuring that the young offenders will continue to perform delinquent acts. This is an interesting point, but a difficult one to translate into policy—and the criminologists do not make an attempt to do so, in part because taken to its extreme their research suggests that the best form of law enforcement intervention might be none. The criminologists' unwillingness to attempt to articulate a policy also stems from their failure— perhaps mirroring that of law enforcement—to distinguish sufficiently between what the young adults themselves think of as criminal behavior and what they consider merely "fun" even while acknowledging that it is illegal. Many of the subjects of the criminologists' research used just this word to explain why they indulged in delinquent behavior as juveniles. This suggests that while young adults who engage in occasional delinquent activity think of that activity as illegal, they do not think of themselves as criminals— and that once they become officially recognized by law enforcement as criminals deserving incarceration the young adults may change their opinion of themselves. The strongest support for this view is that most youthful offenders who escape detection by law enforcement stop their delinquent behavior by age 18, and that only 8 percent of these report that they did so out of the fear of getting caught. Perhaps a policy that encourages maturation, rather than routinely imposing incarceration, may be the most effective form of rehabilitation for young offenders. The problem of juvenile delinquency certainly ought to be dealt with, but the question is one of approach. The conventional wisdom has held that it is essential to make youthful offenders understand that their actions are absolutely impermissible, even if this requires incarceration. However, we do not need to remove delinquents from the community, but rather rehabilitate them when they do wrong. Might it not make a difference, for instance, if a young adult caught stealing from a store is made to return the merchandise and apologize to the store owner rather than being incarcerated as a thief? We should be trying to ensure that youthful offenders learn the values of the larger society by the time they reach maturity. This should be the goal when dealing with juvenile delinquency, and it can be achieved without either inflicting incarceration or allowing young offenders to escape penalty.

200002_4-RC_2_8

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

Much of mainstream thinking concerning juvenile delinquency in Canada and the United States is based on the assumption that if uncorrected it automatically leads to adult crime and should thus be severely punished, usually by some form of incarceration, before it becomes an ingrained behavior pattern. While there is some connection between juvenile delinquency and adult criminality, some criminologists argue that this can actually be explained by the actions of the justice system itself: research by these criminologists suggests that incarceration may have the perverse effect of ensuring that the young offenders will continue to perform delinquent acts. This is an interesting point, but a difficult one to translate into policy—and the criminologists do not make an attempt to do so, in part because taken to its extreme their research suggests that the best form of law enforcement intervention might be none. The criminologists' unwillingness to attempt to articulate a policy also stems from their failure— perhaps mirroring that of law enforcement—to distinguish sufficiently between what the young adults themselves think of as criminal behavior and what they consider merely "fun" even while acknowledging that it is illegal. Many of the subjects of the criminologists' research used just this word to explain why they indulged in delinquent behavior as juveniles. This suggests that while young adults who engage in occasional delinquent activity think of that activity as illegal, they do not think of themselves as criminals— and that once they become officially recognized by law enforcement as criminals deserving incarceration the young adults may change their opinion of themselves. The strongest support for this view is that most youthful offenders who escape detection by law enforcement stop their delinquent behavior by age 18, and that only 8 percent of these report that they did so out of the fear of getting caught. Perhaps a policy that encourages maturation, rather than routinely imposing incarceration, may be the most effective form of rehabilitation for young offenders. The problem of juvenile delinquency certainly ought to be dealt with, but the question is one of approach. The conventional wisdom has held that it is essential to make youthful offenders understand that their actions are absolutely impermissible, even if this requires incarceration. However, we do not need to remove delinquents from the community, but rather rehabilitate them when they do wrong. Might it not make a difference, for instance, if a young adult caught stealing from a store is made to return the merchandise and apologize to the store owner rather than being incarcerated as a thief? We should be trying to ensure that youthful offenders learn the values of the larger society by the time they reach maturity. This should be the goal when dealing with juvenile delinquency, and it can be achieved without either inflicting incarceration or allowing young offenders to escape penalty.

200002_4-RC_2_9

The author's opinion about the work of the criminologists discussed in the first paragraph can most accurately be described by which one of the following?

Much of mainstream thinking concerning juvenile delinquency in Canada and the United States is based on the assumption that if uncorrected it automatically leads to adult crime and should thus be severely punished, usually by some form of incarceration, before it becomes an ingrained behavior pattern. While there is some connection between juvenile delinquency and adult criminality, some criminologists argue that this can actually be explained by the actions of the justice system itself: research by these criminologists suggests that incarceration may have the perverse effect of ensuring that the young offenders will continue to perform delinquent acts. This is an interesting point, but a difficult one to translate into policy—and the criminologists do not make an attempt to do so, in part because taken to its extreme their research suggests that the best form of law enforcement intervention might be none. The criminologists' unwillingness to attempt to articulate a policy also stems from their failure— perhaps mirroring that of law enforcement—to distinguish sufficiently between what the young adults themselves think of as criminal behavior and what they consider merely "fun" even while acknowledging that it is illegal. Many of the subjects of the criminologists' research used just this word to explain why they indulged in delinquent behavior as juveniles. This suggests that while young adults who engage in occasional delinquent activity think of that activity as illegal, they do not think of themselves as criminals— and that once they become officially recognized by law enforcement as criminals deserving incarceration the young adults may change their opinion of themselves. The strongest support for this view is that most youthful offenders who escape detection by law enforcement stop their delinquent behavior by age 18, and that only 8 percent of these report that they did so out of the fear of getting caught. Perhaps a policy that encourages maturation, rather than routinely imposing incarceration, may be the most effective form of rehabilitation for young offenders. The problem of juvenile delinquency certainly ought to be dealt with, but the question is one of approach. The conventional wisdom has held that it is essential to make youthful offenders understand that their actions are absolutely impermissible, even if this requires incarceration. However, we do not need to remove delinquents from the community, but rather rehabilitate them when they do wrong. Might it not make a difference, for instance, if a young adult caught stealing from a store is made to return the merchandise and apologize to the store owner rather than being incarcerated as a thief? We should be trying to ensure that youthful offenders learn the values of the larger society by the time they reach maturity. This should be the goal when dealing with juvenile delinquency, and it can be achieved without either inflicting incarceration or allowing young offenders to escape penalty.

200002_4-RC_2_10

It can be inferred from the passage that the author holds which one of the following views regarding juveniles who view their delinquent activities as "fun" ?

Much of mainstream thinking concerning juvenile delinquency in Canada and the United States is based on the assumption that if uncorrected it automatically leads to adult crime and should thus be severely punished, usually by some form of incarceration, before it becomes an ingrained behavior pattern. While there is some connection between juvenile delinquency and adult criminality, some criminologists argue that this can actually be explained by the actions of the justice system itself: research by these criminologists suggests that incarceration may have the perverse effect of ensuring that the young offenders will continue to perform delinquent acts. This is an interesting point, but a difficult one to translate into policy—and the criminologists do not make an attempt to do so, in part because taken to its extreme their research suggests that the best form of law enforcement intervention might be none. The criminologists' unwillingness to attempt to articulate a policy also stems from their failure— perhaps mirroring that of law enforcement—to distinguish sufficiently between what the young adults themselves think of as criminal behavior and what they consider merely "fun" even while acknowledging that it is illegal. Many of the subjects of the criminologists' research used just this word to explain why they indulged in delinquent behavior as juveniles. This suggests that while young adults who engage in occasional delinquent activity think of that activity as illegal, they do not think of themselves as criminals— and that once they become officially recognized by law enforcement as criminals deserving incarceration the young adults may change their opinion of themselves. The strongest support for this view is that most youthful offenders who escape detection by law enforcement stop their delinquent behavior by age 18, and that only 8 percent of these report that they did so out of the fear of getting caught. Perhaps a policy that encourages maturation, rather than routinely imposing incarceration, may be the most effective form of rehabilitation for young offenders. The problem of juvenile delinquency certainly ought to be dealt with, but the question is one of approach. The conventional wisdom has held that it is essential to make youthful offenders understand that their actions are absolutely impermissible, even if this requires incarceration. However, we do not need to remove delinquents from the community, but rather rehabilitate them when they do wrong. Might it not make a difference, for instance, if a young adult caught stealing from a store is made to return the merchandise and apologize to the store owner rather than being incarcerated as a thief? We should be trying to ensure that youthful offenders learn the values of the larger society by the time they reach maturity. This should be the goal when dealing with juvenile delinquency, and it can be achieved without either inflicting incarceration or allowing young offenders to escape penalty.

200002_4-RC_2_11

The author's attitude toward current law enforcement policies dealing with juvenile delinquency can most accurately be described as

Much of mainstream thinking concerning juvenile delinquency in Canada and the United States is based on the assumption that if uncorrected it automatically leads to adult crime and should thus be severely punished, usually by some form of incarceration, before it becomes an ingrained behavior pattern. While there is some connection between juvenile delinquency and adult criminality, some criminologists argue that this can actually be explained by the actions of the justice system itself: research by these criminologists suggests that incarceration may have the perverse effect of ensuring that the young offenders will continue to perform delinquent acts. This is an interesting point, but a difficult one to translate into policy—and the criminologists do not make an attempt to do so, in part because taken to its extreme their research suggests that the best form of law enforcement intervention might be none. The criminologists' unwillingness to attempt to articulate a policy also stems from their failure— perhaps mirroring that of law enforcement—to distinguish sufficiently between what the young adults themselves think of as criminal behavior and what they consider merely "fun" even while acknowledging that it is illegal. Many of the subjects of the criminologists' research used just this word to explain why they indulged in delinquent behavior as juveniles. This suggests that while young adults who engage in occasional delinquent activity think of that activity as illegal, they do not think of themselves as criminals— and that once they become officially recognized by law enforcement as criminals deserving incarceration the young adults may change their opinion of themselves. The strongest support for this view is that most youthful offenders who escape detection by law enforcement stop their delinquent behavior by age 18, and that only 8 percent of these report that they did so out of the fear of getting caught. Perhaps a policy that encourages maturation, rather than routinely imposing incarceration, may be the most effective form of rehabilitation for young offenders. The problem of juvenile delinquency certainly ought to be dealt with, but the question is one of approach. The conventional wisdom has held that it is essential to make youthful offenders understand that their actions are absolutely impermissible, even if this requires incarceration. However, we do not need to remove delinquents from the community, but rather rehabilitate them when they do wrong. Might it not make a difference, for instance, if a young adult caught stealing from a store is made to return the merchandise and apologize to the store owner rather than being incarcerated as a thief? We should be trying to ensure that youthful offenders learn the values of the larger society by the time they reach maturity. This should be the goal when dealing with juvenile delinquency, and it can be achieved without either inflicting incarceration or allowing young offenders to escape penalty.

200002_4-RC_2_12

In relation to lines 10–13 of the passage, the author's purpose in lines 49– 53 is to