CLAT Practice Test - 5 - CLAT MCQ

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

Have you ever come across a painting, by Picasso, Mondrian, Miro or any other modem abstract painter of this century, and found yourself engulfed in a brightly coloured canvas which your senses cannot interpret? Many people would tend to denounce abstractionism as senseless trash. These people are disoriented by Miro’s bright, fanciful creatures and two-dimensional canvases. They click their tongues and shake their head at Mondrian’s grid works, declaring the poor guy played too many scrabble games. They silently shake their heads in sympathy for Picasso, whose gruesome, distorted figures must be a reflection of his mental health. Then, standing in front of a work by Charlie Russell, the famous Western artist, they’ll declare it a work of God. People feel more comfortable with something they can relate to and understand immediately without too much thought. This is the case with the work of Charlie Russell. Being able to recognize the elements in his paintings - trees, horses and cowboys— gives people a safety line to their world of “reality”. There are some who would disagree when I say abstract art requires more creativity and artistic talent to produce a good piece than does representational art, but there are many weaknesses in their arguments.
People who look down upon abstract art have several major arguments to support their beliefs. They feel that artists turn abstract because they are not capable of the technical drafting skills that appear in a Russell; therefore, such artists create an art form that anyone is capable of and that is less time consuming, and then parade it as artistic progress. Secondly, they feel that the purpose of art is to create something of beauty in an orderly, logical composition. Russell’s compositions are balanced and rational; everything sits calmly on the canvas, leaving the viewer satisfied that he has seen all there is to see. The modem abstractionists, on the other hand, seem to compose their pieces irrationally. For example, upon seeing Picasso’s Guernica, a friend of mine asked me, “What’s the point?” Finally, many people feel that art should portray the ideal and real. The exactness of detail in Charlie Russell’s work is an example of this. He has been called a great historian because his pieces depict the life style, dress and events of the times. His subject matter is derived from his own experiences on the trail, and reproduced to the smallest detail.
I agree in part with many of these arguments, and at one time even endorsed them. But now, I believe differently. Firstly I object to the argument that abstract artists are not capable of drafting. Many abstract artists, such as Picasso, are excellent draftsmen. As his work matured, Picasso became more abstract in order to increase the expressive quality of his work .Guernica was meant as a protest against the bombing of that city by the Germans. To express the terror and suffering of the victims more vividly, he distorted the figures and presented them in a black and white journalistic manner. If he had used representational images and colour, much of the emotional content would have been lost and the piece would not have caused the demand for justice that it did. Secondly, I do not think that a piece must be logical and aesthetically pleasing to be art. The message it conveys to its viewers is more important. It should reflect the ideals and issues of its time and be true to itself, not just a flowery glossy surface. For example through his work Mondrian was trying to present a system of simplicity, logic, and rational older. As a result, his pieces did end up looking like a scrabble board. Miro created powerful, surrealistic images from his dreams and subconscious. These artists were trying to evoke a response from society through an expressionistic manner. Finally, abstract artists and representational artists maintain different ideas about ‘reality’. To the representational artist, reality is what he sees with his eyes. This is the reality he reproduces on canvas. To the abstract artist, reality is what he feels about what his eyes see. This is the reality he interprets on canvas. This can be illustrated by Mondrian’s Trees series. You can actually see the progression from the early recognizable, though abstracted, Trees, to his final solution, the grid system.
A cycle of abstract and representational art began with the first scratchings of prehistoric man. From the abstractions of ancient Egypt to representational, classical Rome, returning to abstractionism in early Christian art and so on up to the present day, the cycle has been going on. But this day and age may witness its death through the camera. With film, there is no need to produce finely detailed, historical records manually; the camera does this for us more efficiently. Maybe, representational art would cease to exist. With abstractionism as the victor of the first battle, may be a different kind of cycle will be touched off. Possibly, sometime in the distant future, thousands of years from now, art itself will be physically non-existent. Some artists today believe that once they have planned and constructed a piece in their mind there is no sense in finishing it with their hands; it has already been done and can never be duplicated.

Q. The author acknowledges that Mondrian’s pieces may have ended up looking like a scrabble board because

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

Have you ever come across a painting, by Picasso, Mondrian, Miro or any other modem abstract painter of this century, and found yourself engulfed in a brightly coloured canvas which your senses cannot interpret? Many people would tend to denounce abstractionism as senseless trash. These people are disoriented by Miro’s bright, fanciful creatures and two-dimensional canvases. They click their tongues and shake their head at Mondrian’s grid works, declaring the poor guy played too many scrabble games. They silently shake their heads in sympathy for Picasso, whose gruesome, distorted figures must be a reflection of his mental health. Then, standing in front of a work by Charlie Russell, the famous Western artist, they’ll declare it a work of God. People feel more comfortable with something they can relate to and understand immediately without too much thought. This is the case with the work of Charlie Russell. Being able to recognize the elements in his paintings - trees, horses and cowboys— gives people a safety line to their world of “reality”. There are some who would disagree when I say abstract art requires more creativity and artistic talent to produce a good piece than does representational art, but there are many weaknesses in their arguments.
People who look down upon abstract art have several major arguments to support their beliefs. They feel that artists turn abstract because they are not capable of the technical drafting skills that appear in a Russell; therefore, such artists create an art form that anyone is capable of and that is less time consuming, and then parade it as artistic progress. Secondly, they feel that the purpose of art is to create something of beauty in an orderly, logical composition. Russell’s compositions are balanced and rational; everything sits calmly on the canvas, leaving the viewer satisfied that he has seen all there is to see. The modem abstractionists, on the other hand, seem to compose their pieces irrationally. For example, upon seeing Picasso’s Guernica, a friend of mine asked me, “What’s the point?” Finally, many people feel that art should portray the ideal and real. The exactness of detail in Charlie Russell’s work is an example of this. He has been called a great historian because his pieces depict the life style, dress and events of the times. His subject matter is derived from his own experiences on the trail, and reproduced to the smallest detail.
I agree in part with many of these arguments, and at one time even endorsed them. But now, I believe differently. Firstly I object to the argument that abstract artists are not capable of drafting. Many abstract artists, such as Picasso, are excellent draftsmen. As his work matured, Picasso became more abstract in order to increase the expressive quality of his work .Guernica was meant as a protest against the bombing of that city by the Germans. To express the terror and suffering of the victims more vividly, he distorted the figures and presented them in a black and white journalistic manner. If he had used representational images and colour, much of the emotional content would have been lost and the piece would not have caused the demand for justice that it did. Secondly, I do not think that a piece must be logical and aesthetically pleasing to be art. The message it conveys to its viewers is more important. It should reflect the ideals and issues of its time and be true to itself, not just a flowery glossy surface. For example through his work Mondrian was trying to present a system of simplicity, logic, and rational older. As a result, his pieces did end up looking like a scrabble board. Miro created powerful, surrealistic images from his dreams and subconscious. These artists were trying to evoke a response from society through an expressionistic manner. Finally, abstract artists and representational artists maintain different ideas about ‘reality’. To the representational artist, reality is what he sees with his eyes. This is the reality he reproduces on canvas. To the abstract artist, reality is what he feels about what his eyes see. This is the reality he interprets on canvas. This can be illustrated by Mondrian’s Trees series. You can actually see the progression from the early recognizable, though abstracted, Trees, to his final solution, the grid system.
A cycle of abstract and representational art began with the first scratchings of prehistoric man. From the abstractions of ancient Egypt to representational, classical Rome, returning to abstractionism in early Christian art and so on up to the present day, the cycle has been going on. But this day and age may witness its death through the camera. With film, there is no need to produce finely detailed, historical records manually; the camera does this for us more efficiently. Maybe, representational art would cease to exist. With abstractionism as the victor of the first battle, may be a different kind of cycle will be touched off. Possibly, sometime in the distant future, thousands of years from now, art itself will be physically non-existent. Some artists today believe that once they have planned and constructed a piece in their mind there is no sense in finishing it with their hands; it has already been done and can never be duplicated.

Q. The main difference between the abstract artist and the representational artist in matters of the ‘ideal’ and the ‘real’, according to the author, is:

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill. The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during the hours of daylight. Few people ever passed that way. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven of wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie.
It was early April and the wild roses were flowering. I walked down to the stream almost every day, after two or three hours of writing.
Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. And in the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of khaleej pheasant. As I had not come to take anything from the jungle, the birds and animals soon grew accustomed to my face. After some time, my approach did not disturb them. But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering in the trees, and I was not the cause of their excitement.
As I crossed the stream a shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.
It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence, though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.
One day I found the remains of a barking deer, which had been partially eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the remains of his meal, and decided it must have been disturbed while eating. Then, climbing the hill, I met a party of shikaris. Leopard-skins, they told me, were selling in Delhi at over a thousand rupees each! Of course there was a ban on the export of skins, but they gave me to understand that there were ways and means …
I thanked them for their information and walked on, feeling uneasy. The shikaris had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard's pug marks, and they kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away; for they were ready to fire at almost anything.
"There's a leopard about," they always told me. "You should carry a gun."
"I don't have one," I said.

Q. Why did the author feel that the animals in the ravine were not disturbed by his approach?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill. The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during the hours of daylight. Few people ever passed that way. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven of wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie.
It was early April and the wild roses were flowering. I walked down to the stream almost every day, after two or three hours of writing.
Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. And in the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of khaleej pheasant. As I had not come to take anything from the jungle, the birds and animals soon grew accustomed to my face. After some time, my approach did not disturb them. But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering in the trees, and I was not the cause of their excitement.
As I crossed the stream a shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.
It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence, though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.
One day I found the remains of a barking deer, which had been partially eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the remains of his meal, and decided it must have been disturbed while eating. Then, climbing the hill, I met a party of shikaris. Leopard-skins, they told me, were selling in Delhi at over a thousand rupees each! Of course there was a ban on the export of skins, but they gave me to understand that there were ways and means …
I thanked them for their information and walked on, feeling uneasy. The shikaris had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard's pug marks, and they kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away; for they were ready to fire at almost anything.
"There's a leopard about," they always told me. "You should carry a gun."
"I don't have one," I said.

Q. Why did the author feel that the leopard might have sensed his presence?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill. The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during the hours of daylight. Few people ever passed that way. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven of wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie.
It was early April and the wild roses were flowering. I walked down to the stream almost every day, after two or three hours of writing.
Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. And in the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of khaleej pheasant. As I had not come to take anything from the jungle, the birds and animals soon grew accustomed to my face. After some time, my approach did not disturb them. But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering in the trees, and I was not the cause of their excitement.
As I crossed the stream a shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.
It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence, though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.
One day I found the remains of a barking deer, which had been partially eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the remains of his meal, and decided it must have been disturbed while eating. Then, climbing the hill, I met a party of shikaris. Leopard-skins, they told me, were selling in Delhi at over a thousand rupees each! Of course there was a ban on the export of skins, but they gave me to understand that there were ways and means …
I thanked them for their information and walked on, feeling uneasy. The shikaris had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard's pug marks, and they kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away; for they were ready to fire at almost anything.
"There's a leopard about," they always told me. "You should carry a gun."
"I don't have one," I said.

Q. What does the word 'poised' as used in the passage mean?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill. The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during the hours of daylight. Few people ever passed that way. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven of wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie.
It was early April and the wild roses were flowering. I walked down to the stream almost every day, after two or three hours of writing.
Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. And in the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of khaleej pheasant. As I had not come to take anything from the jungle, the birds and animals soon grew accustomed to my face. After some time, my approach did not disturb them. But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering in the trees, and I was not the cause of their excitement.
As I crossed the stream a shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.
It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence, though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.
One day I found the remains of a barking deer, which had been partially eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the remains of his meal, and decided it must have been disturbed while eating. Then, climbing the hill, I met a party of shikaris. Leopard-skins, they told me, were selling in Delhi at over a thousand rupees each! Of course there was a ban on the export of skins, but they gave me to understand that there were ways and means …
I thanked them for their information and walked on, feeling uneasy. The shikaris had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard's pug marks, and they kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away; for they were ready to fire at almost anything.
"There's a leopard about," they always told me. "You should carry a gun."
"I don't have one," I said.

Q. Why, according to the author, the leopard must have left the remains of the deer out in the open?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

I first saw the leopard when I was crossing the small stream at the bottom of the hill. The ravine was so deep that for most of the day it remained in shadow. This encouraged many birds and animals to emerge from cover during the hours of daylight. Few people ever passed that way. As a result, the ravine had become a little haven of wildlife, one of the few natural sanctuaries left near Mussoorie.
It was early April and the wild roses were flowering. I walked down to the stream almost every day, after two or three hours of writing.
Nearly every morning, and sometimes during the day, I heard the cry of the barking deer. And in the evening, walking through the forest, I disturbed parties of khaleej pheasant. As I had not come to take anything from the jungle, the birds and animals soon grew accustomed to my face. After some time, my approach did not disturb them. But one evening, as I passed, I heard them chattering in the trees, and I was not the cause of their excitement.
As I crossed the stream a shower of pebbles came rattling down the steep hillside, and I looked up to see a sinewy orange-gold leopard poised on a rock about 20 feet above me.
It was not looking towards me, but had its head thrust attentively forward in the direction of the ravine. It must have sensed my presence, though, because slowly it turned its head to look down at me. It seemed a little puzzled at my presence there; when, to give myself courage, I clapped my hands sharply, the leopard sprang away into the thickets, making no sound as it melted into the shadows.
One day I found the remains of a barking deer, which had been partially eaten. I wondered why the leopard had not hidden the remains of his meal, and decided it must have been disturbed while eating. Then, climbing the hill, I met a party of shikaris. Leopard-skins, they told me, were selling in Delhi at over a thousand rupees each! Of course there was a ban on the export of skins, but they gave me to understand that there were ways and means …
I thanked them for their information and walked on, feeling uneasy. The shikaris had seen the carcass of the deer, and they had seen the leopard's pug marks, and they kept coming to the forest. Almost every evening I heard their guns banging away; for they were ready to fire at almost anything.
"There's a leopard about," they always told me. "You should carry a gun."
"I don't have one," I said.

Q. Which of the following can be inferred from the shikaris' response when the author states a fact about trading of leopard skin?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

Each one has his reasons; for one art is a flight; for another a means of conquering. But one can flee into a hermitage, into madness, into death. One can conquer by arms. Why does it have to be writing, why does one have to manage his escapes and conquests by writing? Because, behind the various aims of authors, there is a deeper and more immediate choice which is common to all of us. We shall try to elucidate this choice, and we shall see whether it is not in the name of this very choice of writing that the engagement of writers must be required.
Each of our perceptions is accompanied by the consciousness that human reality is a ‘revealer’, that is, it is through human reality that ‘there is’ being, or, put it differently, that man is the means by which things are manifested. It is our presence in the world which multiplies relations. It is we who set up a relationship between this tree and that bit of sky. Thanks to us, that star which has been dead for millennia, that quarter moon, and that dark river are disclosed in the unity of a landscape. It is the speed of our auto and our airplane which organizes the great masses of the earth. With each of our acts, the world reveals to us a new face. But, if we know that we are directors of being, we also know that we are not its producers. If we turn away from this landscape, it will sink back into its dark permanence. At least, it will sink back; there is no one mad enough to think that it is going to be annihilated. It is we who shall be annihilated, and the earth will remain in its lethargy until another consciousness comes along to awaken it. Thus to our inner certainty of being ‘revealers’ is added that of being inessential in relation to the thing revealed.
One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world. If I fix on canvas or in writing a certain aspect of the fields or the sea or a look on someone’s face which I have disclosed, I am conscious of having produced them by condensing relationships, by introducing order where there was none, by imposing the unity of mind on the diversity of things. That is, I think myself essential in relation to my creation. But this time it is the created object which escapes me; I cannot reveal and produce at the same time. The creation becomes inessential in relation to the creative activity. First of all, even if it appears to others as definitive, the created object always seems to us in a state of suspension; we can always change this line, that shade, that word. Thus, it never forces itself. A novice painter asked his teacher, ‘When should I consider my painting finished?’ And the teacher answered, ‘When you can look at it in amazement and say to yourself “I’m the one who did that!”’
Which amounts to saying ‘never’. For it is virtually considering one’s work with someone else’s eyes and revealing what has been created. But it is self-evident that we are proportionally less conscious of the thing produced and more conscious of our productive activity. When it is a matter of poetry or carpentry we work according to traditional norms, with tools whose usage is codified; it is Heidegger’s famous ‘they’ who are working with our hands. In this case, the result can seem to us sufficiently strange to preserve its objectivity in our eyes. But if we ourselves produce the rules of production, the measures, the criteria, and if our creative drive comes from the very depths of our heart, then we never find anything but ourselves in our work. It is we who have invented the laws by which we judge it. It is our history, our love, our gaiety that we recognize in it. Even if we should regard it without touching it any further, we never receive from it that gaiety or love. We put them into it. The results which we have obtained on canvas or paper never seem to us objective. We are too familiar with the processes of which they are the effects. These processes remain a subjective discovery; they are ourselves, our inspiration, our ruse, and when we seek to perceive our work, we create it again, we repeat mentally the operations which produced it; each of its aspects appears as a result. Thus in the perception the object is given as the essential thing and the subject as the inessential. The latter seeks essentiality in the creation and obtains it but then it is the object which becomes the inessential.
The dialectic is nowhere more apparent than in the art of writing, for the literary object is a peculiar top which exists only in movement. To make it come into view a concrete act called reading is necessary, and it lasts only as long as this act can last. Beyond that, there are only black marks on paper. Now, the writer cannot read what he writes, whereas the shoemaker can put on the shoes he has just made if they are to his size, and the architect can live in the house he has built. In reading, one foresees; one waits. He foresees the end of the sentence, the following sentence, the next page. He waits for them to confirm or disappoint his foresights. The reading is composed of a host of hypotheses, followed by awakenings, of hopes and deceptions. Readers are always ahead of the sentence they are reading in a merely probable future which partly collapses and partly comes together in proportion as they progress, which withdraws from one page to the next and forms the moving horizon of the literary object. Without waiting, without a future, without ignorance, there is no objectivity.

Q. The author holds that:

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

Each one has his reasons; for one art is a flight; for another a means of conquering. But one can flee into a hermitage, into madness, into death. One can conquer by arms. Why does it have to be writing, why does one have to manage his escapes and conquests by writing? Because, behind the various aims of authors, there is a deeper and more immediate choice which is common to all of us. We shall try to elucidate this choice, and we shall see whether it is not in the name of this very choice of writing that the engagement of writers must be required.
Each of our perceptions is accompanied by the consciousness that human reality is a ‘revealer’, that is, it is through human reality that ‘there is’ being, or, put it differently, that man is the means by which things are manifested. It is our presence in the world which multiplies relations. It is we who set up a relationship between this tree and that bit of sky. Thanks to us, that star which has been dead for millennia, that quarter moon, and that dark river are disclosed in the unity of a landscape. It is the speed of our auto and our airplane which organizes the great masses of the earth. With each of our acts, the world reveals to us a new face. But, if we know that we are directors of being, we also know that we are not its producers. If we turn away from this landscape, it will sink back into its dark permanence. At least, it will sink back; there is no one mad enough to think that it is going to be annihilated. It is we who shall be annihilated, and the earth will remain in its lethargy until another consciousness comes along to awaken it. Thus to our inner certainty of being ‘revealers’ is added that of being inessential in relation to the thing revealed.
One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world. If I fix on canvas or in writing a certain aspect of the fields or the sea or a look on someone’s face which I have disclosed, I am conscious of having produced them by condensing relationships, by introducing order where there was none, by imposing the unity of mind on the diversity of things. That is, I think myself essential in relation to my creation. But this time it is the created object which escapes me; I cannot reveal and produce at the same time. The creation becomes inessential in relation to the creative activity. First of all, even if it appears to others as definitive, the created object always seems to us in a state of suspension; we can always change this line, that shade, that word. Thus, it never forces itself. A novice painter asked his teacher, ‘When should I consider my painting finished?’ And the teacher answered, ‘When you can look at it in amazement and say to yourself “I’m the one who did that!”’
Which amounts to saying ‘never’. For it is virtually considering one’s work with someone else’s eyes and revealing what has been created. But it is self-evident that we are proportionally less conscious of the thing produced and more conscious of our productive activity. When it is a matter of poetry or carpentry we work according to traditional norms, with tools whose usage is codified; it is Heidegger’s famous ‘they’ who are working with our hands. In this case, the result can seem to us sufficiently strange to preserve its objectivity in our eyes. But if we ourselves produce the rules of production, the measures, the criteria, and if our creative drive comes from the very depths of our heart, then we never find anything but ourselves in our work. It is we who have invented the laws by which we judge it. It is our history, our love, our gaiety that we recognize in it. Even if we should regard it without touching it any further, we never receive from it that gaiety or love. We put them into it. The results which we have obtained on canvas or paper never seem to us objective. We are too familiar with the processes of which they are the effects. These processes remain a subjective discovery; they are ourselves, our inspiration, our ruse, and when we seek to perceive our work, we create it again, we repeat mentally the operations which produced it; each of its aspects appears as a result. Thus in the perception the object is given as the essential thing and the subject as the inessential. The latter seeks essentiality in the creation and obtains it but then it is the object which becomes the inessential.
The dialectic is nowhere more apparent than in the art of writing, for the literary object is a peculiar top which exists only in movement. To make it come into view a concrete act called reading is necessary, and it lasts only as long as this act can last. Beyond that, there are only black marks on paper. Now, the writer cannot read what he writes, whereas the shoemaker can put on the shoes he has just made if they are to his size, and the architect can live in the house he has built. In reading, one foresees; one waits. He foresees the end of the sentence, the following sentence, the next page. He waits for them to confirm or disappoint his foresights. The reading is composed of a host of hypotheses, followed by awakenings, of hopes and deceptions. Readers are always ahead of the sentence they are reading in a merely probable future which partly collapses and partly comes together in proportion as they progress, which withdraws from one page to the next and forms the moving horizon of the literary object. Without waiting, without a future, without ignorance, there is no objectivity.

Q. It is the author's contention that:

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

Each one has his reasons; for one art is a flight; for another a means of conquering. But one can flee into a hermitage, into madness, into death. One can conquer by arms. Why does it have to be writing, why does one have to manage his escapes and conquests by writing? Because, behind the various aims of authors, there is a deeper and more immediate choice which is common to all of us. We shall try to elucidate this choice, and we shall see whether it is not in the name of this very choice of writing that the engagement of writers must be required.
Each of our perceptions is accompanied by the consciousness that human reality is a ‘revealer’, that is, it is through human reality that ‘there is’ being, or, put it differently, that man is the means by which things are manifested. It is our presence in the world which multiplies relations. It is we who set up a relationship between this tree and that bit of sky. Thanks to us, that star which has been dead for millennia, that quarter moon, and that dark river are disclosed in the unity of a landscape. It is the speed of our auto and our airplane which organizes the great masses of the earth. With each of our acts, the world reveals to us a new face. But, if we know that we are directors of being, we also know that we are not its producers. If we turn away from this landscape, it will sink back into its dark permanence. At least, it will sink back; there is no one mad enough to think that it is going to be annihilated. It is we who shall be annihilated, and the earth will remain in its lethargy until another consciousness comes along to awaken it. Thus to our inner certainty of being ‘revealers’ is added that of being inessential in relation to the thing revealed.
One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world. If I fix on canvas or in writing a certain aspect of the fields or the sea or a look on someone’s face which I have disclosed, I am conscious of having produced them by condensing relationships, by introducing order where there was none, by imposing the unity of mind on the diversity of things. That is, I think myself essential in relation to my creation. But this time it is the created object which escapes me; I cannot reveal and produce at the same time. The creation becomes inessential in relation to the creative activity. First of all, even if it appears to others as definitive, the created object always seems to us in a state of suspension; we can always change this line, that shade, that word. Thus, it never forces itself. A novice painter asked his teacher, ‘When should I consider my painting finished?’ And the teacher answered, ‘When you can look at it in amazement and say to yourself “I’m the one who did that!”’
Which amounts to saying ‘never’. For it is virtually considering one’s work with someone else’s eyes and revealing what has been created. But it is self-evident that we are proportionally less conscious of the thing produced and more conscious of our productive activity. When it is a matter of poetry or carpentry we work according to traditional norms, with tools whose usage is codified; it is Heidegger’s famous ‘they’ who are working with our hands. In this case, the result can seem to us sufficiently strange to preserve its objectivity in our eyes. But if we ourselves produce the rules of production, the measures, the criteria, and if our creative drive comes from the very depths of our heart, then we never find anything but ourselves in our work. It is we who have invented the laws by which we judge it. It is our history, our love, our gaiety that we recognize in it. Even if we should regard it without touching it any further, we never receive from it that gaiety or love. We put them into it. The results which we have obtained on canvas or paper never seem to us objective. We are too familiar with the processes of which they are the effects. These processes remain a subjective discovery; they are ourselves, our inspiration, our ruse, and when we seek to perceive our work, we create it again, we repeat mentally the operations which produced it; each of its aspects appears as a result. Thus in the perception the object is given as the essential thing and the subject as the inessential. The latter seeks essentiality in the creation and obtains it but then it is the object which becomes the inessential.
The dialectic is nowhere more apparent than in the art of writing, for the literary object is a peculiar top which exists only in movement. To make it come into view a concrete act called reading is necessary, and it lasts only as long as this act can last. Beyond that, there are only black marks on paper. Now, the writer cannot read what he writes, whereas the shoemaker can put on the shoes he has just made if they are to his size, and the architect can live in the house he has built. In reading, one foresees; one waits. He foresees the end of the sentence, the following sentence, the next page. He waits for them to confirm or disappoint his foresights. The reading is composed of a host of hypotheses, followed by awakenings, of hopes and deceptions. Readers are always ahead of the sentence they are reading in a merely probable future which partly collapses and partly comes together in proportion as they progress, which withdraws from one page to the next and forms the moving horizon of the literary object. Without waiting, without a future, without ignorance, there is no objectivity.

Q. The passage makes a distinction between perception and creation in terms of:

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

Each one has his reasons; for one art is a flight; for another a means of conquering. But one can flee into a hermitage, into madness, into death. One can conquer by arms. Why does it have to be writing, why does one have to manage his escapes and conquests by writing? Because, behind the various aims of authors, there is a deeper and more immediate choice which is common to all of us. We shall try to elucidate this choice, and we shall see whether it is not in the name of this very choice of writing that the engagement of writers must be required.
Each of our perceptions is accompanied by the consciousness that human reality is a ‘revealer’, that is, it is through human reality that ‘there is’ being, or, put it differently, that man is the means by which things are manifested. It is our presence in the world which multiplies relations. It is we who set up a relationship between this tree and that bit of sky. Thanks to us, that star which has been dead for millennia, that quarter moon, and that dark river are disclosed in the unity of a landscape. It is the speed of our auto and our airplane which organizes the great masses of the earth. With each of our acts, the world reveals to us a new face. But, if we know that we are directors of being, we also know that we are not its producers. If we turn away from this landscape, it will sink back into its dark permanence. At least, it will sink back; there is no one mad enough to think that it is going to be annihilated. It is we who shall be annihilated, and the earth will remain in its lethargy until another consciousness comes along to awaken it. Thus to our inner certainty of being ‘revealers’ is added that of being inessential in relation to the thing revealed.
One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world. If I fix on canvas or in writing a certain aspect of the fields or the sea or a look on someone’s face which I have disclosed, I am conscious of having produced them by condensing relationships, by introducing order where there was none, by imposing the unity of mind on the diversity of things. That is, I think myself essential in relation to my creation. But this time it is the created object which escapes me; I cannot reveal and produce at the same time. The creation becomes inessential in relation to the creative activity. First of all, even if it appears to others as definitive, the created object always seems to us in a state of suspension; we can always change this line, that shade, that word. Thus, it never forces itself. A novice painter asked his teacher, ‘When should I consider my painting finished?’ And the teacher answered, ‘When you can look at it in amazement and say to yourself “I’m the one who did that!”’
Which amounts to saying ‘never’. For it is virtually considering one’s work with someone else’s eyes and revealing what has been created. But it is self-evident that we are proportionally less conscious of the thing produced and more conscious of our productive activity. When it is a matter of poetry or carpentry we work according to traditional norms, with tools whose usage is codified; it is Heidegger’s famous ‘they’ who are working with our hands. In this case, the result can seem to us sufficiently strange to preserve its objectivity in our eyes. But if we ourselves produce the rules of production, the measures, the criteria, and if our creative drive comes from the very depths of our heart, then we never find anything but ourselves in our work. It is we who have invented the laws by which we judge it. It is our history, our love, our gaiety that we recognize in it. Even if we should regard it without touching it any further, we never receive from it that gaiety or love. We put them into it. The results which we have obtained on canvas or paper never seem to us objective. We are too familiar with the processes of which they are the effects. These processes remain a subjective discovery; they are ourselves, our inspiration, our ruse, and when we seek to perceive our work, we create it again, we repeat mentally the operations which produced it; each of its aspects appears as a result. Thus in the perception the object is given as the essential thing and the subject as the inessential. The latter seeks essentiality in the creation and obtains it but then it is the object which becomes the inessential.
The dialectic is nowhere more apparent than in the art of writing, for the literary object is a peculiar top which exists only in movement. To make it come into view a concrete act called reading is necessary, and it lasts only as long as this act can last. Beyond that, there are only black marks on paper. Now, the writer cannot read what he writes, whereas the shoemaker can put on the shoes he has just made if they are to his size, and the architect can live in the house he has built. In reading, one foresees; one waits. He foresees the end of the sentence, the following sentence, the next page. He waits for them to confirm or disappoint his foresights. The reading is composed of a host of hypotheses, followed by awakenings, of hopes and deceptions. Readers are always ahead of the sentence they are reading in a merely probable future which partly collapses and partly comes together in proportion as they progress, which withdraws from one page to the next and forms the moving horizon of the literary object. Without waiting, without a future, without ignorance, there is no objectivity.

Q. The art of writing manifests the dialectic of perception and creation because

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

Each one has his reasons; for one art is a flight; for another a means of conquering. But one can flee into a hermitage, into madness, into death. One can conquer by arms. Why does it have to be writing, why does one have to manage his escapes and conquests by writing? Because, behind the various aims of authors, there is a deeper and more immediate choice which is common to all of us. We shall try to elucidate this choice, and we shall see whether it is not in the name of this very choice of writing that the engagement of writers must be required.
Each of our perceptions is accompanied by the consciousness that human reality is a ‘revealer’, that is, it is through human reality that ‘there is’ being, or, put it differently, that man is the means by which things are manifested. It is our presence in the world which multiplies relations. It is we who set up a relationship between this tree and that bit of sky. Thanks to us, that star which has been dead for millennia, that quarter moon, and that dark river are disclosed in the unity of a landscape. It is the speed of our auto and our airplane which organizes the great masses of the earth. With each of our acts, the world reveals to us a new face. But, if we know that we are directors of being, we also know that we are not its producers. If we turn away from this landscape, it will sink back into its dark permanence. At least, it will sink back; there is no one mad enough to think that it is going to be annihilated. It is we who shall be annihilated, and the earth will remain in its lethargy until another consciousness comes along to awaken it. Thus to our inner certainty of being ‘revealers’ is added that of being inessential in relation to the thing revealed.
One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world. If I fix on canvas or in writing a certain aspect of the fields or the sea or a look on someone’s face which I have disclosed, I am conscious of having produced them by condensing relationships, by introducing order where there was none, by imposing the unity of mind on the diversity of things. That is, I think myself essential in relation to my creation. But this time it is the created object which escapes me; I cannot reveal and produce at the same time. The creation becomes inessential in relation to the creative activity. First of all, even if it appears to others as definitive, the created object always seems to us in a state of suspension; we can always change this line, that shade, that word. Thus, it never forces itself. A novice painter asked his teacher, ‘When should I consider my painting finished?’ And the teacher answered, ‘When you can look at it in amazement and say to yourself “I’m the one who did that!”’
Which amounts to saying ‘never’. For it is virtually considering one’s work with someone else’s eyes and revealing what has been created. But it is self-evident that we are proportionally less conscious of the thing produced and more conscious of our productive activity. When it is a matter of poetry or carpentry we work according to traditional norms, with tools whose usage is codified; it is Heidegger’s famous ‘they’ who are working with our hands. In this case, the result can seem to us sufficiently strange to preserve its objectivity in our eyes. But if we ourselves produce the rules of production, the measures, the criteria, and if our creative drive comes from the very depths of our heart, then we never find anything but ourselves in our work. It is we who have invented the laws by which we judge it. It is our history, our love, our gaiety that we recognize in it. Even if we should regard it without touching it any further, we never receive from it that gaiety or love. We put them into it. The results which we have obtained on canvas or paper never seem to us objective. We are too familiar with the processes of which they are the effects. These processes remain a subjective discovery; they are ourselves, our inspiration, our ruse, and when we seek to perceive our work, we create it again, we repeat mentally the operations which produced it; each of its aspects appears as a result. Thus in the perception the object is given as the essential thing and the subject as the inessential. The latter seeks essentiality in the creation and obtains it but then it is the object which becomes the inessential.
The dialectic is nowhere more apparent than in the art of writing, for the literary object is a peculiar top which exists only in movement. To make it come into view a concrete act called reading is necessary, and it lasts only as long as this act can last. Beyond that, there are only black marks on paper. Now, the writer cannot read what he writes, whereas the shoemaker can put on the shoes he has just made if they are to his size, and the architect can live in the house he has built. In reading, one foresees; one waits. He foresees the end of the sentence, the following sentence, the next page. He waits for them to confirm or disappoint his foresights. The reading is composed of a host of hypotheses, followed by awakenings, of hopes and deceptions. Readers are always ahead of the sentence they are reading in a merely probable future which partly collapses and partly comes together in proportion as they progress, which withdraws from one page to the next and forms the moving horizon of the literary object. Without waiting, without a future, without ignorance, there is no objectivity.

Q. A writer as an artist,

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father's legs, brimming over with life and laughter. "Come, child, come," called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. "I want that toy," he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant's way. His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her finger to hold, said, "Look, child, what is before you!"
It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings.
The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest, and he would try to catch it. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: "Come, child, come, come on to the footpath."
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
"Come, child, come!" they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many other footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the world he was entering.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer played, he proceeded farther.

Q. Why did the mother prompt the child to look at the mustard field?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father's legs, brimming over with life and laughter. "Come, child, come," called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. "I want that toy," he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant's way. His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her finger to hold, said, "Look, child, what is before you!"
It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings.
The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest, and he would try to catch it. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: "Come, child, come, come on to the footpath."
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
"Come, child, come!" they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many other footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the world he was entering.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer played, he proceeded farther.

Q. Why did the boy's parents call him several times along the way?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father's legs, brimming over with life and laughter. "Come, child, come," called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. "I want that toy," he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant's way. His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her finger to hold, said, "Look, child, what is before you!"
It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings.
The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest, and he would try to catch it. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: "Come, child, come, come on to the footpath."
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
"Come, child, come!" they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many other footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the world he was entering.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer played, he proceeded farther.

Q. What does the word 'tender' as used in the passage mean?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father's legs, brimming over with life and laughter. "Come, child, come," called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. "I want that toy," he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant's way. His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her finger to hold, said, "Look, child, what is before you!"
It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings.
The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest, and he would try to catch it. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: "Come, child, come, come on to the footpath."
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
"Come, child, come!" they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many other footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the world he was entering.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer played, he proceeded farther.

Q. Based on the information set out in the passage, which of the following is most accurate?

Read the given passage and answer the question that follows.

It was the festival of spring. From the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and bullock carts. One little boy ran between his father's legs, brimming over with life and laughter. "Come, child, come," called his parents, as he lagged behind, fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in their eyes. "I want that toy," he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in his familiar tyrant's way. His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was tender and, giving him her finger to hold, said, "Look, child, what is before you!"
It was a flowering mustard-field, pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of even land. A group of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings.
The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them would still its wings and rest, and he would try to catch it. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: "Come, child, come, come on to the footpath."
He ran towards his parents gaily and walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
"Come, child, come!" they called to the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round the banyan tree, and gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the fair through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many other footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the world he was entering.
A snake-charmer stood playing a flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse music as the snake- charmer played, he proceeded farther.

Q. Which of the following best sums up the author's main point in the given passage?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

“Well, lately Mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I’ve got proud notions from you; and he says he won’t let me come here anymore, and that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down river.”
“Why—but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza, simply.
“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is no law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my wife, if he chooses to part us. That’s why I wish I’d never seen you,—why I wish I’d never been born; it would have been better for us both,—it would have been better for this poor child if he had never been born. All this may happen to him yet!”
“O, but master is so kind!”
“Yes, but who knows?—he may die—and then he may be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much for you to keep.”
The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if someone had struck her a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.

Q. Why does George say he wishes he had never seen Eliza?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

“Well, lately Mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I’ve got proud notions from you; and he says he won’t let me come here anymore, and that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down river.”
“Why—but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza, simply.
“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is no law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my wife, if he chooses to part us. That’s why I wish I’d never seen you,—why I wish I’d never been born; it would have been better for us both,—it would have been better for this poor child if he had never been born. All this may happen to him yet!”
“O, but master is so kind!”
“Yes, but who knows?—he may die—and then he may be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much for you to keep.”
The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if someone had struck her a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.

Q. What reason does George give Eliza as to why their marriage isn't real?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

“Well, lately Mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I’ve got proud notions from you; and he says he won’t let me come here anymore, and that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down river.”
“Why—but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza, simply.
“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is no law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my wife, if he chooses to part us. That’s why I wish I’d never seen you,—why I wish I’d never been born; it would have been better for us both,—it would have been better for this poor child if he had never been born. All this may happen to him yet!”
“O, but master is so kind!”
“Yes, but who knows?—he may die—and then he may be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much for you to keep.”
The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if someone had struck her a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.

Q. What does George mean when he says "a sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has"?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

“Well, lately Mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I’ve got proud notions from you; and he says he won’t let me come here anymore, and that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down river.”
“Why—but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza, simply.
“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is no law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my wife, if he chooses to part us. That’s why I wish I’d never seen you,—why I wish I’d never been born; it would have been better for us both,—it would have been better for this poor child if he had never been born. All this may happen to him yet!”
“O, but master is so kind!”
“Yes, but who knows?—he may die—and then he may be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much for you to keep.”
The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if someone had struck her a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.

Q. In the last paragraph, he author mentions Eliza turning pale and gasping for breath. Why does Eliza turn pale and gasp for breath?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

“Well, lately Mas’r has been saying that he was a fool to let me marry off the place; that he hates Mr. Shelby and all his tribe, because they are proud, and hold their heads up above him, and that I’ve got proud notions from you; and he says he won’t let me come here anymore, and that I shall take a wife and settle down on his place. At first he only scolded and grumbled these things; but yesterday he told me that I should take Mina for a wife, and settle down in a cabin with her, or he would sell me down river.”
“Why—but you were married to me, by the minister, as much as if you’d been a white man!” said Eliza, simply.
“Don’t you know a slave can’t be married? There is no law in this country for that; I can’t hold you for my wife, if he chooses to part us. That’s why I wish I’d never seen you,—why I wish I’d never been born; it would have been better for us both,—it would have been better for this poor child if he had never been born. All this may happen to him yet!”
“O, but master is so kind!”
“Yes, but who knows?—he may die—and then he may be sold to nobody knows who. What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and bright? I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much for you to keep.”
The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if someone had struck her a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath. She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick. She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.

Q. Which of the following can be attributed to George?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

There are believed to be at least 125 million speakers of English in India, which makes it the world's second-largest English-speaking country. This is reason enough for you to sit up and read this section, but the unique cultural differences between Indian English and our western mother tongue are, I think, utterly fascinating. I cannot hope but to skate blissfully along the surface of this deepest of linguistic oceans (how's that for a seasonal mix?), but I would like to share some of its historical roots.
English in India is usually associated with the British Raj, but Indian English as we know it today is an entirely different creature. Once recognised as the ruling language of the starch-shirted elite, Indian English now represents the unique socio-cultural mechanisms of this diverse, multilingual country. The sub-dialects vary according to region and the speaker's mother tongue. Numerous options and possibilities can be placed before 'English', and a completely different kind of hybrid and accent persists from state to state. One's linguistic background is made prominent by one's English. Delightfully, it is easy for one's ear to be spoiled by the mellifluousness of Indian English. The speaker's intention is, in the utterance, to define a word in as tangible a manner as possible. The r's are hard, and words like 'summer' are spoken as 'sum-mer'. On the other hand, this need for emphasis can also lead to a sense of anxiety about not relaying one's politeness in professional mails.
In June 2018, Shashi Tharoor wrote a piece for the Week and made a bold announcement: that in his college days, he had invented the word 'prepone'. Two columns later, Tharoor started his new piece with an apology for this 'immodest thought'. In truth, the very first use of the word 'prepone' is credited in 1913 to a J. J. D. Trenor in the New York Times. Tharoor's mistake is understandable, as the word is not as prevalent abroad as it is in India. Tharoor's two columns launch into interesting facts about the Indian English phenomenon. He notes the comical difference between 'mugging' in India and abroad. While Google would say that mugging means to be robbed in a public place, or to, as an actor, make great big comical faces, for Indians the word is popularly used by students to refer to cramming before an exam. And if they then tell you they 'passed out' of college? Congratulate them, because all that mugging has paid off. 'Passing out' is simply the Indian English way of saying 'I graduated', rather than the American or British English way of implying that after one too many keggers or drinks parties you will never graduate at all.

Q. Which of the following best expresses the author's main idea in the passage?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

There are believed to be at least 125 million speakers of English in India, which makes it the world's second-largest English-speaking country. This is reason enough for you to sit up and read this section, but the unique cultural differences between Indian English and our western mother tongue are, I think, utterly fascinating. I cannot hope but to skate blissfully along the surface of this deepest of linguistic oceans (how's that for a seasonal mix?), but I would like to share some of its historical roots.
English in India is usually associated with the British Raj, but Indian English as we know it today is an entirely different creature. Once recognised as the ruling language of the starch-shirted elite, Indian English now represents the unique socio-cultural mechanisms of this diverse, multilingual country. The sub-dialects vary according to region and the speaker's mother tongue. Numerous options and possibilities can be placed before 'English', and a completely different kind of hybrid and accent persists from state to state. One's linguistic background is made prominent by one's English. Delightfully, it is easy for one's ear to be spoiled by the mellifluousness of Indian English. The speaker's intention is, in the utterance, to define a word in as tangible a manner as possible. The r's are hard, and words like 'summer' are spoken as 'sum-mer'. On the other hand, this need for emphasis can also lead to a sense of anxiety about not relaying one's politeness in professional mails.
In June 2018, Shashi Tharoor wrote a piece for the Week and made a bold announcement: that in his college days, he had invented the word 'prepone'. Two columns later, Tharoor started his new piece with an apology for this 'immodest thought'. In truth, the very first use of the word 'prepone' is credited in 1913 to a J. J. D. Trenor in the New York Times. Tharoor's mistake is understandable, as the word is not as prevalent abroad as it is in India. Tharoor's two columns launch into interesting facts about the Indian English phenomenon. He notes the comical difference between 'mugging' in India and abroad. While Google would say that mugging means to be robbed in a public place, or to, as an actor, make great big comical faces, for Indians the word is popularly used by students to refer to cramming before an exam. And if they then tell you they 'passed out' of college? Congratulate them, because all that mugging has paid off. 'Passing out' is simply the Indian English way of saying 'I graduated', rather than the American or British English way of implying that after one too many keggers or drinks parties you will never graduate at all.

Q. Why does the author think Indian English represents India's cultural diversity?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

There are believed to be at least 125 million speakers of English in India, which makes it the world's second-largest English-speaking country. This is reason enough for you to sit up and read this section, but the unique cultural differences between Indian English and our western mother tongue are, I think, utterly fascinating. I cannot hope but to skate blissfully along the surface of this deepest of linguistic oceans (how's that for a seasonal mix?), but I would like to share some of its historical roots.
English in India is usually associated with the British Raj, but Indian English as we know it today is an entirely different creature. Once recognised as the ruling language of the starch-shirted elite, Indian English now represents the unique socio-cultural mechanisms of this diverse, multilingual country. The sub-dialects vary according to region and the speaker's mother tongue. Numerous options and possibilities can be placed before 'English', and a completely different kind of hybrid and accent persists from state to state. One's linguistic background is made prominent by one's English. Delightfully, it is easy for one's ear to be spoiled by the mellifluousness of Indian English. The speaker's intention is, in the utterance, to define a word in as tangible a manner as possible. The r's are hard, and words like 'summer' are spoken as 'sum-mer'. On the other hand, this need for emphasis can also lead to a sense of anxiety about not relaying one's politeness in professional mails.
In June 2018, Shashi Tharoor wrote a piece for the Week and made a bold announcement: that in his college days, he had invented the word 'prepone'. Two columns later, Tharoor started his new piece with an apology for this 'immodest thought'. In truth, the very first use of the word 'prepone' is credited in 1913 to a J. J. D. Trenor in the New York Times. Tharoor's mistake is understandable, as the word is not as prevalent abroad as it is in India. Tharoor's two columns launch into interesting facts about the Indian English phenomenon. He notes the comical difference between 'mugging' in India and abroad. While Google would say that mugging means to be robbed in a public place, or to, as an actor, make great big comical faces, for Indians the word is popularly used by students to refer to cramming before an exam. And if they then tell you they 'passed out' of college? Congratulate them, because all that mugging has paid off. 'Passing out' is simply the Indian English way of saying 'I graduated', rather than the American or British English way of implying that after one too many keggers or drinks parties you will never graduate at all.

Q. What does the word 'skate' as used in the passage mean?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

There are believed to be at least 125 million speakers of English in India, which makes it the world's second-largest English-speaking country. This is reason enough for you to sit up and read this section, but the unique cultural differences between Indian English and our western mother tongue are, I think, utterly fascinating. I cannot hope but to skate blissfully along the surface of this deepest of linguistic oceans (how's that for a seasonal mix?), but I would like to share some of its historical roots.
English in India is usually associated with the British Raj, but Indian English as we know it today is an entirely different creature. Once recognised as the ruling language of the starch-shirted elite, Indian English now represents the unique socio-cultural mechanisms of this diverse, multilingual country. The sub-dialects vary according to region and the speaker's mother tongue. Numerous options and possibilities can be placed before 'English', and a completely different kind of hybrid and accent persists from state to state. One's linguistic background is made prominent by one's English. Delightfully, it is easy for one's ear to be spoiled by the mellifluousness of Indian English. The speaker's intention is, in the utterance, to define a word in as tangible a manner as possible. The r's are hard, and words like 'summer' are spoken as 'sum-mer'. On the other hand, this need for emphasis can also lead to a sense of anxiety about not relaying one's politeness in professional mails.
In June 2018, Shashi Tharoor wrote a piece for the Week and made a bold announcement: that in his college days, he had invented the word 'prepone'. Two columns later, Tharoor started his new piece with an apology for this 'immodest thought'. In truth, the very first use of the word 'prepone' is credited in 1913 to a J. J. D. Trenor in the New York Times. Tharoor's mistake is understandable, as the word is not as prevalent abroad as it is in India. Tharoor's two columns launch into interesting facts about the Indian English phenomenon. He notes the comical difference between 'mugging' in India and abroad. While Google would say that mugging means to be robbed in a public place, or to, as an actor, make great big comical faces, for Indians the word is popularly used by students to refer to cramming before an exam. And if they then tell you they 'passed out' of college? Congratulate them, because all that mugging has paid off. 'Passing out' is simply the Indian English way of saying 'I graduated', rather than the American or British English way of implying that after one too many keggers or drinks parties you will never graduate at all.

Q. What, according to the author, could be a cause of anxiety among speakers of Indian English?

Read the passage given below and answer the questions based on it.

There are believed to be at least 125 million speakers of English in India, which makes it the world's second-largest English-speaking country. This is reason enough for you to sit up and read this section, but the unique cultural differences between Indian English and our western mother tongue are, I think, utterly fascinating. I cannot hope but to skate blissfully along the surface of this deepest of linguistic oceans (how's that for a seasonal mix?), but I would like to share some of its historical roots.
English in India is usually associated with the British Raj, but Indian English as we know it today is an entirely different creature. Once recognised as the ruling language of the starch-shirted elite, Indian English now represents the unique socio-cultural mechanisms of this diverse, multilingual country. The sub-dialects vary according to region and the speaker's mother tongue. Numerous options and possibilities can be placed before 'English', and a completely different kind of hybrid and accent persists from state to state. One's linguistic background is made prominent by one's English. Delightfully, it is easy for one's ear to be spoiled by the mellifluousness of Indian English. The speaker's intention is, in the utterance, to define a word in as tangible a manner as possible. The r's are hard, and words like 'summer' are spoken as 'sum-mer'. On the other hand, this need for emphasis can also lead to a sense of anxiety about not relaying one's politeness in professional mails.
In June 2018, Shashi Tharoor wrote a piece for the Week and made a bold announcement: that in his college days, he had invented the word 'prepone'. Two columns later, Tharoor started his new piece with an apology for this 'immodest thought'. In truth, the very first use of the word 'prepone' is credited in 1913 to a J. J. D. Trenor in the New York Times. Tharoor's mistake is understandable, as the word is not as prevalent abroad as it is in India. Tharoor's two columns launch into interesting facts about the Indian English phenomenon. He notes the comical difference between 'mugging' in India and abroad. While Google would say that mugging means to be robbed in a public place, or to, as an actor, make great big comical faces, for Indians the word is popularly used by students to refer to cramming before an exam. And if they then tell you they 'passed out' of college? Congratulate them, because all that mugging has paid off. 'Passing out' is simply the Indian English way of saying 'I graduated', rather than the American or British English way of implying that after one too many keggers or drinks parties you will never graduate at all.

Q. Why does the author mention about Tharoor's columns that state interesting facts about Indian English?