Question based on the following passage and supplementary material. This passage is adapted from Kevin Drum, “America's Real Criminal Element: Lead" ©2013 Mother Jones. Experts often suggest that crime resembles an epidemic. But what kind? Economics professor Karl Smith has a good rule of thumb for categorizing epidemics: If it spreads along (5) lines of communication, he says, the cause is information. Think Bieber Fever. * If it travels along major transportation routes, the cause is microbial. Think influenza. If it spreads out like a fan, the cause is an insect. Think malaria. But (10) if it's everywhere, all at once—as both the rise of crime in the '60s and '70s and the fall of crime in the '90s seemed to be—the cause is a molecule. A molecule? That sounds crazy. What molecule could be responsible for a steep and (15) sudden decline in violent crime? Well, here's one possibility: Pb(CH 2 CH 3 ) 4 . In 1994, Rick Nevin was a consultant working for the US Department of Housing and Urban Development on the costs and benefits of (20) removing lead paint from old houses. A growing body of research had linked lead exposure in small children with a whole raft of complications later in life, including lower IQ, hyperactivity, behavioral problems, and learning disabilities. (25) A recent study had also suggested a link between childhood lead exposure and juvenile delinquency later on. Maybe reducing lead exposure had an effect on violent crime too? That tip took Nevin in a different direction. The (30) biggest source of lead in the postwar era, it turns out, wasn't paint, but leaded gasoline. If you chart the rise and fall of atmospheric lead caused by the rise and fall of leaded gasoline consumption, you get an upside-down U. Lead emissions from (35) tailpipes rose steadily from the early '40s through the early '70s, nearly quadrupling over that period. Then, as unleaded gasoline began to replace leaded gasoline, emissions plummeted. Intriguingly, violent crime rates followed the (40) same upside-down U pattern (see the graph). The only thing different was the time period. Crime rates rose dramatically in the '60s through the '80s, and then began dropping steadily starting in the early '90s. The two curves looked eerily (45) identical, but were offset by about 20 years. So Nevin dug up detailed data on lead emissions and crime rates to see if the similarity of the curves was as good as it seemed. It turned out to be even better. In a 2000 paper he concluded (50) that if you add a lag time of 23 years, lead emissions from automobiles explain 90 percent of the variation in violent crime in America. Toddlers who ingested high levels of lead in the '40s and '50s really were more likely to become violent (55) criminals in the '60s, '70s, and '80s. And with that we have our molecule: tetra- ethyl lead, the gasoline additive invented by General Motors in the 1920s to prevent knocking and pinging in high-performance engines. As (60) auto sales boomed after World War II, and drivers in powerful new cars increasingly asked service station attendants to “fill 'er up with ethyl,” they were unwittingly creating a crime wave two decades later. (65) It was an exciting conjecture, and it prompted an immediate wave of . . . nothing. Nevin's paper was almost completely ignored, and in one sense it's easy to see why—Nevin is an economist, not a criminologist, and his paper (70) was published in Environmental Research, not a journal with a big readership in the criminology community. What's more, a single correlation between two curves isn't all that impressive, econometrically speaking. Sales of vinyl LPs rose (75) in the postwar period too, and then declined in the '80s and '90s. No matter how good the fit, if you only have a single correlation it might just be a coincidence. You need to do something more to establish causality. (80) So in 2007, Nevin collected lead data and crime data for Australia, Canada, Great Britain, Finland, France, Italy, New Zealand and West Germany. Every time, the two curves fit each other astonishingly well. (85) The gasoline lead hypothesis helps explain some things we might not have realized even needed explaining. For example, murder rates have always been higher in big cities than in towns and small cities. Nevin suggests that, (90) because big cities have lots of cars in a small area, they also had high densities of atmospheric lead during the postwar era. But as lead levels in gasoline decreased, the differences between big and small cities largely went away. And guess (95) what? The difference in murder rates went away too. Today, homicide rates are similar in cities of all sizes. It may be that violent crime isn't an inevitable consequence of being a big city after all. * Enthusiasm for the music and person of Justin Bieber. Q. In the first paragraph, Karl Smith’s work is presented primarily as

a controversial sociological hypothesis.

a warning about potentially dangerous economic trends.

a useful model for conceptualizing a variety of phenomena.

a potential medical solution to a persistent social problem.

Question based on the following passage and supplementary material. This passage is adapted from Kevin Drum, “America's Real Criminal Element: Lead" ©2013 Mother Jones. Experts often suggest that crime resembles an epidemic. But what kind? Economics professor Karl Smith has a good rule of thumb for categorizing epidemics: If it spreads along (5) lines of communication, he says, the cause is information. Think Bieber Fever. * If it travels along major transportation routes, the cause is microbial. Think influenza. If it spreads out like a fan, the cause is an insect. Think malaria. But (10) if it's everywhere, all at once—as both the rise of crime in the '60s and '70s and the fall of crime in the '90s seemed to be—the cause is a molecule. A molecule? That sounds crazy. What molecule could be responsible for a steep and (15) sudden decline in violent crime? Well, here's one possibility: Pb(CH 2 CH 3 ) 4 . In 1994, Rick Nevin was a consultant working for the US Department of Housing and Urban Development on the costs and benefits of (20) removing lead paint from old houses. A growing body of research had linked lead exposure in small children with a whole raft of complications later in life, including lower IQ, hyperactivity, behavioral problems, and learning disabilities. (25) A recent study had also suggested a link between childhood lead exposure and juvenile delinquency later on. Maybe reducing lead exposure had an effect on violent crime too? That tip took Nevin in a different direction. The (30) biggest source of lead in the postwar era, it turns out, wasn't paint, but leaded gasoline. If you chart the rise and fall of atmospheric lead caused by the rise and fall of leaded gasoline consumption, you get an upside-down U. Lead emissions from (35) tailpipes rose steadily from the early '40s through the early '70s, nearly quadrupling over that period. Then, as unleaded gasoline began to replace leaded gasoline, emissions plummeted. Intriguingly, violent crime rates followed the (40) same upside-down U pattern (see the graph). The only thing different was the time period. Crime rates rose dramatically in the '60s through the '80s, and then began dropping steadily starting in the early '90s. The two curves looked eerily (45) identical, but were offset by about 20 years. So Nevin dug up detailed data on lead emissions and crime rates to see if the similarity of the curves was as good as it seemed. It turned out to be even better. In a 2000 paper he concluded (50) that if you add a lag time of 23 years, lead emissions from automobiles explain 90 percent of the variation in violent crime in America. Toddlers who ingested high levels of lead in the '40s and '50s really were more likely to become violent (55) criminals in the '60s, '70s, and '80s. And with that we have our molecule: tetra- ethyl lead, the gasoline additive invented by General Motors in the 1920s to prevent knocking and pinging in high-performance engines. As (60) auto sales boomed after World War II, and drivers in powerful new cars increasingly asked service station attendants to “fill 'er up with ethyl,” they were unwittingly creating a crime wave two decades later. (65) It was an exciting conjecture, and it prompted an immediate wave of . . . nothing. Nevin's paper was almost completely ignored, and in one sense it's easy to see why—Nevin is an economist, not a criminologist, and his paper (70) was published in Environmental Research, not a journal with a big readership in the criminology community. What's more, a single correlation between two curves isn't all that impressive, econometrically speaking. Sales of vinyl LPs rose (75) in the postwar period too, and then declined in the '80s and '90s. No matter how good the fit, if you only have a single correlation it might just be a coincidence. You need to do something more to establish causality. (80) So in 2007, Nevin collected lead data and crime data for Australia, Canada, Great Britain, Finland, France, Italy, New Zealand and West Germany. Every time, the two curves fit each other astonishingly well. (85) The gasoline lead hypothesis helps explain some things we might not have realized even needed explaining. For example, murder rates have always been higher in big cities than in towns and small cities. Nevin suggests that, (90) because big cities have lots of cars in a small area, they also had high densities of atmospheric lead during the postwar era. But as lead levels in gasoline decreased, the differences between big and small cities largely went away. And guess (95) what? The difference in murder rates went away too. Today, homicide rates are similar in cities of all sizes. It may be that violent crime isn't an inevitable consequence of being a big city after all. * Enthusiasm for the music and person of Justin Bieber. Q. The author suggests that promising research in the social sciences is sometimes ignored because it

is not presented by authorities with the proper credentials.

is not supported by controlled scientific experiments.

relies on complex mathematical calculations that are not easily understood.

uses historical data that are not necessarily valid in the modern era.

Question based on the following passage and supplementary material. This passage is adapted from Kevin Drum, “America's Real Criminal Element: Lead" ©2013 Mother Jones. Experts often suggest that crime resembles an epidemic. But what kind? Economics professor Karl Smith has a good rule of thumb for categorizing epidemics: If it spreads along (5) lines of communication, he says, the cause is information. Think Bieber Fever. * If it travels along major transportation routes, the cause is microbial. Think influenza. If it spreads out like a fan, the cause is an insect. Think malaria. But (10) if it's everywhere, all at once—as both the rise of crime in the '60s and '70s and the fall of crime in the '90s seemed to be—the cause is a molecule. A molecule? That sounds crazy. What molecule could be responsible for a steep and (15) sudden decline in violent crime? Well, here's one possibility: Pb(CH 2 CH 3 ) 4 . In 1994, Rick Nevin was a consultant working for the US Department of Housing and Urban Development on the costs and benefits of (20) removing lead paint from old houses. A growing body of research had linked lead exposure in small children with a whole raft of complications later in life, including lower IQ, hyperactivity, behavioral problems, and learning disabilities. (25) A recent study had also suggested a link between childhood lead exposure and juvenile delinquency later on. Maybe reducing lead exposure had an effect on violent crime too? That tip took Nevin in a different direction. The (30) biggest source of lead in the postwar era, it turns out, wasn't paint, but leaded gasoline. If you chart the rise and fall of atmospheric lead caused by the rise and fall of leaded gasoline consumption, you get an upside-down U. Lead emissions from (35) tailpipes rose steadily from the early '40s through the early '70s, nearly quadrupling over that period. Then, as unleaded gasoline began to replace leaded gasoline, emissions plummeted. Intriguingly, violent crime rates followed the (40) same upside-down U pattern (see the graph). The only thing different was the time period. Crime rates rose dramatically in the '60s through the '80s, and then began dropping steadily starting in the early '90s. The two curves looked eerily (45) identical, but were offset by about 20 years. So Nevin dug up detailed data on lead emissions and crime rates to see if the similarity of the curves was as good as it seemed. It turned out to be even better. In a 2000 paper he concluded (50) that if you add a lag time of 23 years, lead emissions from automobiles explain 90 percent of the variation in violent crime in America. Toddlers who ingested high levels of lead in the '40s and '50s really were more likely to become violent (55) criminals in the '60s, '70s, and '80s. And with that we have our molecule: tetra- ethyl lead, the gasoline additive invented by General Motors in the 1920s to prevent knocking and pinging in high-performance engines. As (60) auto sales boomed after World War II, and drivers in powerful new cars increasingly asked service station attendants to “fill 'er up with ethyl,” they were unwittingly creating a crime wave two decades later. (65) It was an exciting conjecture, and it prompted an immediate wave of . . . nothing. Nevin's paper was almost completely ignored, and in one sense it's easy to see why—Nevin is an economist, not a criminologist, and his paper (70) was published in Environmental Research, not a journal with a big readership in the criminology community. What's more, a single correlation between two curves isn't all that impressive, econometrically speaking. Sales of vinyl LPs rose (75) in the postwar period too, and then declined in the '80s and '90s. No matter how good the fit, if you only have a single correlation it might just be a coincidence. You need to do something more to establish causality. (80) So in 2007, Nevin collected lead data and crime data for Australia, Canada, Great Britain, Finland, France, Italy, New Zealand and West Germany. Every time, the two curves fit each other astonishingly well. (85) The gasoline lead hypothesis helps explain some things we might not have realized even needed explaining. For example, murder rates have always been higher in big cities than in towns and small cities. Nevin suggests that, (90) because big cities have lots of cars in a small area, they also had high densities of atmospheric lead during the postwar era. But as lead levels in gasoline decreased, the differences between big and small cities largely went away. And guess (95) what? The difference in murder rates went away too. Today, homicide rates are similar in cities of all sizes. It may be that violent crime isn't an inevitable consequence of being a big city after all. * Enthusiasm for the music and person of Justin Bieber. Q. Which of the following provides the strongest evidence for the answer to the previous question?

Lines 25–27 (“A recent study . . . later on”)

Lines 49–52 (“In a 2000 paper . . . America”)

Lines 68–72 (“Nevin is . . . community”)

Lines 72–74 (“What’s more . . . speaking”)

Question based on the following passage and supplementary material. This passage is adapted from Kevin Drum, “America's Real Criminal Element: Lead" ©2013 Mother Jones. Experts often suggest that crime resembles an epidemic. But what kind? Economics professor Karl Smith has a good rule of thumb for categorizing epidemics: If it spreads along (5) lines of communication, he says, the cause is information. Think Bieber Fever. * If it travels along major transportation routes, the cause is microbial. Think influenza. If it spreads out like a fan, the cause is an insect. Think malaria. But (10) if it's everywhere, all at once—as both the rise of crime in the '60s and '70s and the fall of crime in the '90s seemed to be—the cause is a molecule. A molecule? That sounds crazy. What molecule could be responsible for a steep and (15) sudden decline in violent crime? Well, here's one possibility: Pb(CH 2 CH 3 ) 4 . In 1994, Rick Nevin was a consultant working for the US Department of Housing and Urban Development on the costs and benefits of (20) removing lead paint from old houses. A growing body of research had linked lead exposure in small children with a whole raft of complications later in life, including lower IQ, hyperactivity, behavioral problems, and learning disabilities. (25) A recent study had also suggested a link between childhood lead exposure and juvenile delinquency later on. Maybe reducing lead exposure had an effect on violent crime too? That tip took Nevin in a different direction. The (30) biggest source of lead in the postwar era, it turns out, wasn't paint, but leaded gasoline. If you chart the rise and fall of atmospheric lead caused by the rise and fall of leaded gasoline consumption, you get an upside-down U. Lead emissions from (35) tailpipes rose steadily from the early '40s through the early '70s, nearly quadrupling over that period. Then, as unleaded gasoline began to replace leaded gasoline, emissions plummeted. Intriguingly, violent crime rates followed the (40) same upside-down U pattern (see the graph). The only thing different was the time period. Crime rates rose dramatically in the '60s through the '80s, and then began dropping steadily starting in the early '90s. The two curves looked eerily (45) identical, but were offset by about 20 years. So Nevin dug up detailed data on lead emissions and crime rates to see if the similarity of the curves was as good as it seemed. It turned out to be even better. In a 2000 paper he concluded (50) that if you add a lag time of 23 years, lead emissions from automobiles explain 90 percent of the variation in violent crime in America. Toddlers who ingested high levels of lead in the '40s and '50s really were more likely to become violent (55) criminals in the '60s, '70s, and '80s. And with that we have our molecule: tetra- ethyl lead, the gasoline additive invented by General Motors in the 1920s to prevent knocking and pinging in high-performance engines. As (60) auto sales boomed after World War II, and drivers in powerful new cars increasingly asked service station attendants to “fill 'er up with ethyl,” they were unwittingly creating a crime wave two decades later. (65) It was an exciting conjecture, and it prompted an immediate wave of . . . nothing. Nevin's paper was almost completely ignored, and in one sense it's easy to see why—Nevin is an economist, not a criminologist, and his paper (70) was published in Environmental Research, not a journal with a big readership in the criminology community. What's more, a single correlation between two curves isn't all that impressive, econometrically speaking. Sales of vinyl LPs rose (75) in the postwar period too, and then declined in the '80s and '90s. No matter how good the fit, if you only have a single correlation it might just be a coincidence. You need to do something more to establish causality. (80) So in 2007, Nevin collected lead data and crime data for Australia, Canada, Great Britain, Finland, France, Italy, New Zealand and West Germany. Every time, the two curves fit each other astonishingly well. (85) The gasoline lead hypothesis helps explain some things we might not have realized even needed explaining. For example, murder rates have always been higher in big cities than in towns and small cities. Nevin suggests that, (90) because big cities have lots of cars in a small area, they also had high densities of atmospheric lead during the postwar era. But as lead levels in gasoline decreased, the differences between big and small cities largely went away. And guess (95) what? The difference in murder rates went away too. Today, homicide rates are similar in cities of all sizes. It may be that violent crime isn't an inevitable consequence of being a big city after all. * Enthusiasm for the music and person of Justin Bieber. Q. The author mentions “sales of vinyl LPs” (line 74) primarily as an example of

another economic factor that may explain a social trend.

how harmful chemicals can be spread via consumer products.

a statistic that may be more coincidental than explanatory.

a counterintuitive trend in consumer behavior.

Question based on the following passage and supplementary material. This passage is adapted from Kevin Drum, “America's Real Criminal Element: Lead" ©2013 Mother Jones. Experts often suggest that crime resembles an epidemic. But what kind? Economics professor Karl Smith has a good rule of thumb for categorizing epidemics: If it spreads along (5) lines of communication, he says, the cause is information. Think Bieber Fever. * If it travels along major transportation routes, the cause is microbial. Think influenza. If it spreads out like a fan, the cause is an insect. Think malaria. But (10) if it's everywhere, all at once—as both the rise of crime in the '60s and '70s and the fall of crime in the '90s seemed to be—the cause is a molecule. A molecule? That sounds crazy. What molecule could be responsible for a steep and (15) sudden decline in violent crime? Well, here's one possibility: Pb(CH 2 CH 3 ) 4 . In 1994, Rick Nevin was a consultant working for the US Department of Housing and Urban Development on the costs and benefits of (20) removing lead paint from old houses. A growing body of research had linked lead exposure in small children with a whole raft of complications later in life, including lower IQ, hyperactivity, behavioral problems, and learning disabilities. (25) A recent study had also suggested a link between childhood lead exposure and juvenile delinquency later on. Maybe reducing lead exposure had an effect on violent crime too? That tip took Nevin in a different direction. The (30) biggest source of lead in the postwar era, it turns out, wasn't paint, but leaded gasoline. If you chart the rise and fall of atmospheric lead caused by the rise and fall of leaded gasoline consumption, you get an upside-down U. Lead emissions from (35) tailpipes rose steadily from the early '40s through the early '70s, nearly quadrupling over that period. Then, as unleaded gasoline began to replace leaded gasoline, emissions plummeted. Intriguingly, violent crime rates followed the (40) same upside-down U pattern (see the graph). The only thing different was the time period. Crime rates rose dramatically in the '60s through the '80s, and then began dropping steadily starting in the early '90s. The two curves looked eerily (45) identical, but were offset by about 20 years. So Nevin dug up detailed data on lead emissions and crime rates to see if the similarity of the curves was as good as it seemed. It turned out to be even better. In a 2000 paper he concluded (50) that if you add a lag time of 23 years, lead emissions from automobiles explain 90 percent of the variation in violent crime in America. Toddlers who ingested high levels of lead in the '40s and '50s really were more likely to become violent (55) criminals in the '60s, '70s, and '80s. And with that we have our molecule: tetra- ethyl lead, the gasoline additive invented by General Motors in the 1920s to prevent knocking and pinging in high-performance engines. As (60) auto sales boomed after World War II, and drivers in powerful new cars increasingly asked service station attendants to “fill 'er up with ethyl,” they were unwittingly creating a crime wave two decades later. (65) It was an exciting conjecture, and it prompted an immediate wave of . . . nothing. Nevin's paper was almost completely ignored, and in one sense it's easy to see why—Nevin is an economist, not a criminologist, and his paper (70) was published in Environmental Research, not a journal with a big readership in the criminology community. What's more, a single correlation between two curves isn't all that impressive, econometrically speaking. Sales of vinyl LPs rose (75) in the postwar period too, and then declined in the '80s and '90s. No matter how good the fit, if you only have a single correlation it might just be a coincidence. You need to do something more to establish causality. (80) So in 2007, Nevin collected lead data and crime data for Australia, Canada, Great Britain, Finland, France, Italy, New Zealand and West Germany. Every time, the two curves fit each other astonishingly well. (85) The gasoline lead hypothesis helps explain some things we might not have realized even needed explaining. For example, murder rates have always been higher in big cities than in towns and small cities. Nevin suggests that, (90) because big cities have lots of cars in a small area, they also had high densities of atmospheric lead during the postwar era. But as lead levels in gasoline decreased, the differences between big and small cities largely went away. And guess (95) what? The difference in murder rates went away too. Today, homicide rates are similar in cities of all sizes. It may be that violent crime isn't an inevitable consequence of being a big city after all. * Enthusiasm for the music and person of Justin Bieber. Q. The “complications” in line 22 are

obstacles to gathering relevant data.

controversies about theoretical models.

challenges to the implementation of social policies.

Question based on the following passage and supplementary material. This passage is adapted from Kevin Drum, “America's Real Criminal Element: Lead" ©2013 Mother Jones. Experts often suggest that crime resembles an epidemic. But what kind? Economics professor Karl Smith has a good rule of thumb for categorizing epidemics: If it spreads along (5) lines of communication, he says, the cause is information. Think Bieber Fever. * If it travels along major transportation routes, the cause is microbial. Think influenza. If it spreads out like a fan, the cause is an insect. Think malaria. But (10) if it's everywhere, all at once—as both the rise of crime in the '60s and '70s and the fall of crime in the '90s seemed to be—the cause is a molecule. A molecule? That sounds crazy. What molecule could be responsible for a steep and (15) sudden decline in violent crime? Well, here's one possibility: Pb(CH 2 CH 3 ) 4 . In 1994, Rick Nevin was a consultant working for the US Department of Housing and Urban Development on the costs and benefits of (20) removing lead paint from old houses. A growing body of research had linked lead exposure in small children with a whole raft of complications later in life, including lower IQ, hyperactivity, behavioral problems, and learning disabilities. (25) A recent study had also suggested a link between childhood lead exposure and juvenile delinquency later on. Maybe reducing lead exposure had an effect on violent crime too? That tip took Nevin in a different direction. The (30) biggest source of lead in the postwar era, it turns out, wasn't paint, but leaded gasoline. If you chart the rise and fall of atmospheric lead caused by the rise and fall of leaded gasoline consumption, you get an upside-down U. Lead emissions from (35) tailpipes rose steadily from the early '40s through the early '70s, nearly quadrupling over that period. Then, as unleaded gasoline began to replace leaded gasoline, emissions plummeted. Intriguingly, violent crime rates followed the (40) same upside-down U pattern (see the graph). The only thing different was the time period. Crime rates rose dramatically in the '60s through the '80s, and then began dropping steadily starting in the early '90s. The two curves looked eerily (45) identical, but were offset by about 20 years. So Nevin dug up detailed data on lead emissions and crime rates to see if the similarity of the curves was as good as it seemed. It turned out to be even better. In a 2000 paper he concluded (50) that if you add a lag time of 23 years, lead emissions from automobiles explain 90 percent of the variation in violent crime in America. Toddlers who ingested high levels of lead in the '40s and '50s really were more likely to become violent (55) criminals in the '60s, '70s, and '80s. And with that we have our molecule: tetra- ethyl lead, the gasoline additive invented by General Motors in the 1920s to prevent knocking and pinging in high-performance engines. As (60) auto sales boomed after World War II, and drivers in powerful new cars increasingly asked service station attendants to “fill 'er up with ethyl,” they were unwittingly creating a crime wave two decades later. (65) It was an exciting conjecture, and it prompted an immediate wave of . . . nothing. Nevin's paper was almost completely ignored, and in one sense it's easy to see why—Nevin is an economist, not a criminologist, and his paper (70) was published in Environmental Research, not a journal with a big readership in the criminology community. What's more, a single correlation between two curves isn't all that impressive, econometrically speaking. Sales of vinyl LPs rose (75) in the postwar period too, and then declined in the '80s and '90s. No matter how good the fit, if you only have a single correlation it might just be a coincidence. You need to do something more to establish causality. (80) So in 2007, Nevin collected lead data and crime data for Australia, Canada, Great Britain, Finland, France, Italy, New Zealand and West Germany. Every time, the two curves fit each other astonishingly well. (85) The gasoline lead hypothesis helps explain some things we might not have realized even needed explaining. For example, murder rates have always been higher in big cities than in towns and small cities. Nevin suggests that, (90) because big cities have lots of cars in a small area, they also had high densities of atmospheric lead during the postwar era. But as lead levels in gasoline decreased, the differences between big and small cities largely went away. And guess (95) what? The difference in murder rates went away too. Today, homicide rates are similar in cities of all sizes. It may be that violent crime isn't an inevitable consequence of being a big city after all. * Enthusiasm for the music and person of Justin Bieber. Q. The final paragraph (lines 85–98) serves primarily to

suggest topics for future research.

concede a theoretical drawback.

describe a supportive implication.

Question based on the following passages. Passage 1 is adapted from an essay written by John Aldridge in 1951. ©1951 by John Aldridge. Passage 2 is adapted from Brom Weber, "Ernest Hemingway's Genteel Bullfight," published in The American Novel and the Nineteen Twenties. ©1971 by Hodder Education. Passage 1 By the time we were old enough to read Hemingway, he had become legendary. Like Lord Byron a century earlier, he had learned to play himself, his own best hero, with superb (5) conviction. He was Hemingway of the rugged outdoor grin and the hairy chest posing beside a lion he had just shot. He was Tarzan Hemingway, crouching in the African bush with elephant gun at ready. He was War Correspondent Hemingway (10) writing a play in the Hotel Florida in Madrid while thirty fascist shells crashed through the roof. Later, he was Task Force Hemingway swathed in ammunition belts and defending his post singlehandedly against fierce German (15) attacks. But even without the legend, the chest beating, wisecracking pose that was later to seem so incredibly absurd, his impact upon us was tremendous. The feeling he gave us was one (20) of immense expansiveness, freedom and, at the same time, absolute stability and control. We could follow him, imitate his cold detachment, through all the doubts and fears of adolescence and come out pure and untouched. The words (25) he put down seemed to us to have been carved from the living stone of life. They conveyed exactly the taste, smell and feel of experience as it was, as it might possibly be. And so we began unconsciously to translate our own sensations (30) into their terms and to impose on everything we did and felt the particular emotions they aroused in us. The Hemingway time was a good time to be young. We had much then that the war later (35) forced out of us, something far greater than Hemingway's strong formative influence. Later writers who lost or got rid of Hemingway have been able to find nothing to put in his place. They have rejected his time as untrue (40) for them only to fail at finding themselves in their own time. Others, in their embarrassment at the hold he once had over them, have not profited by the lessons he had to teach, and still others were never touched by him at all. These last are (45) perhaps the real unfortunates, for they have been denied access to a powerful tradition. Passage 2 One wonders why Hemingway's greatest works now seem unable to evoke the same sense of a tottering world that in the 1920s established (50) Ernest Hemingway's reputation. These novels should be speaking to us. Our social structure is as shaken, our philosophical despair as great, our everyday experience as unsatisfying. We have had more war than Hemingway ever dreamed (55) of. Our violence—physical, emotional, and intellectual—is not inferior to that of the 1920s. Yet Hemingway's great novels no longer seem to penetrate deeply the surface of existence. One begins to doubt that they ever did so significantly (60) in the 1920s. Hemingway's novels indulged the dominant genteel tradition in American culture while seeming to repudiate it. They yielded to the functionalist, technological aesthetic of the (65) culture instead of resisting in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hemingway, in effect, became a dupe of his culture rather than its moral-aesthetic conscience. As a consequence, the import of his work has diminished. There is some evidence (70) from his stylistic evolution that Hemingway himself must have felt as much, for Hemingway's famous stylistic economy frequently seems to conceal another kind of writer, with much richer rhetorical resources to hand. So, Death in the (75) Afternoon (1932), Hemingway's bullfighting opus and his first book after A Farewell to Arms (1929), reveals great uneasiness over his earlier accomplishment. In it, he defends his literary method with a doctrine of ambiguity: “If a writer (80) of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.” (85) Hemingway made much the same theoretical point in another way in Death in the Afternoon apparently believing that a formal reduction of aesthetic complexity was the only kind of design that had value. (90) Perhaps the greatest irony of Death in the Afternoon is its unmistakably baroque prose, which Hemingway himself embarrassedly admitted was “flowery.” Reviewers, unable to challenge Hemingway's expertise in the art of (95) bullfighting, noted that its style was “awkward, tortuous, [and] belligerently clumsy.” Death in the Afternoon is an extraordinarily self-indulgent, unruly, clownish, garrulous, and satiric book, with scrambled chronologies, (100) willful digressions, mock-scholarly apparatuses, fictional interludes, and scathing allusions. Its inflated style can hardly penetrate the fagade, let alone deflate humanity. Q. On which topic do the authors of the two passages most strongly disagree?

The economy of Heming way’s writing

The incisiveness of Heming way’s prose

The sincerity of Heming way’s portrayals

The extent of Heming way’s reputation

Question based on the following passages. Passage 1 is adapted from an essay written by John Aldridge in 1951. ©1951 by John Aldridge. Passage 2 is adapted from Brom Weber, "Ernest Hemingway's Genteel Bullfight," published in The American Novel and the Nineteen Twenties. ©1971 by Hodder Education. Passage 1 By the time we were old enough to read Hemingway, he had become legendary. Like Lord Byron a century earlier, he had learned to play himself, his own best hero, with superb (5) conviction. He was Hemingway of the rugged outdoor grin and the hairy chest posing beside a lion he had just shot. He was Tarzan Hemingway, crouching in the African bush with elephant gun at ready. He was War Correspondent Hemingway (10) writing a play in the Hotel Florida in Madrid while thirty fascist shells crashed through the roof. Later, he was Task Force Hemingway swathed in ammunition belts and defending his post singlehandedly against fierce German (15) attacks. But even without the legend, the chest beating, wisecracking pose that was later to seem so incredibly absurd, his impact upon us was tremendous. The feeling he gave us was one (20) of immense expansiveness, freedom and, at the same time, absolute stability and control. We could follow him, imitate his cold detachment, through all the doubts and fears of adolescence and come out pure and untouched. The words (25) he put down seemed to us to have been carved from the living stone of life. They conveyed exactly the taste, smell and feel of experience as it was, as it might possibly be. And so we began unconsciously to translate our own sensations (30) into their terms and to impose on everything we did and felt the particular emotions they aroused in us. The Hemingway time was a good time to be young. We had much then that the war later (35) forced out of us, something far greater than Hemingway's strong formative influence. Later writers who lost or got rid of Hemingway have been able to find nothing to put in his place. They have rejected his time as untrue (40) for them only to fail at finding themselves in their own time. Others, in their embarrassment at the hold he once had over them, have not profited by the lessons he had to teach, and still others were never touched by him at all. These last are (45) perhaps the real unfortunates, for they have been denied access to a powerful tradition. Passage 2 One wonders why Hemingway's greatest works now seem unable to evoke the same sense of a tottering world that in the 1920s established (50) Ernest Hemingway's reputation. These novels should be speaking to us. Our social structure is as shaken, our philosophical despair as great, our everyday experience as unsatisfying. We have had more war than Hemingway ever dreamed (55) of. Our violence—physical, emotional, and intellectual—is not inferior to that of the 1920s. Yet Hemingway's great novels no longer seem to penetrate deeply the surface of existence. One begins to doubt that they ever did so significantly (60) in the 1920s. Hemingway's novels indulged the dominant genteel tradition in American culture while seeming to repudiate it. They yielded to the functionalist, technological aesthetic of the (65) culture instead of resisting in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hemingway, in effect, became a dupe of his culture rather than its moral-aesthetic conscience. As a consequence, the import of his work has diminished. There is some evidence (70) from his stylistic evolution that Hemingway himself must have felt as much, for Hemingway's famous stylistic economy frequently seems to conceal another kind of writer, with much richer rhetorical resources to hand. So, Death in the (75) Afternoon (1932), Hemingway's bullfighting opus and his first book after A Farewell to Arms (1929), reveals great uneasiness over his earlier accomplishment. In it, he defends his literary method with a doctrine of ambiguity: “If a writer (80) of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.” (85) Hemingway made much the same theoretical point in another way in Death in the Afternoon apparently believing that a formal reduction of aesthetic complexity was the only kind of design that had value. (90) Perhaps the greatest irony of Death in the Afternoon is its unmistakably baroque prose, which Hemingway himself embarrassedly admitted was “flowery.” Reviewers, unable to challenge Hemingway's expertise in the art of (95) bullfighting, noted that its style was “awkward, tortuous, [and] belligerently clumsy.” Death in the Afternoon is an extraordinarily self-indulgent, unruly, clownish, garrulous, and satiric book, with scrambled chronologies, (100) willful digressions, mock-scholarly apparatuses, fictional interludes, and scathing allusions. Its inflated style can hardly penetrate the fagade, let alone deflate humanity. Q. Which pair of sentences provides the strongest evidence for the answer to the previous question?

Lines 5–7 (“He was . . . just shot”) and lines 85–89 (“Hemingway . . . had value”)

Lines 37–39 (“Later writers . . . his place”) and lines 55–56 (“Our violence . . . the 1920s”)

Lines 24–26 (“The words . . . stone of life”) and lines 57–58 (“Yet . . . existence”)

Lines 34–36 (“We had much . . . influence”) and lines 90–93 (“Perhaps the greatest . . . was ‘flowery’”)

Question based on the following passages. Passage 1 is adapted from an essay written by John Aldridge in 1951. ©1951 by John Aldridge. Passage 2 is adapted from Brom Weber, "Ernest Hemingway's Genteel Bullfight," published in The American Novel and the Nineteen Twenties. ©1971 by Hodder Education. Passage 1 By the time we were old enough to read Hemingway, he had become legendary. Like Lord Byron a century earlier, he had learned to play himself, his own best hero, with superb (5) conviction. He was Hemingway of the rugged outdoor grin and the hairy chest posing beside a lion he had just shot. He was Tarzan Hemingway, crouching in the African bush with elephant gun at ready. He was War Correspondent Hemingway (10) writing a play in the Hotel Florida in Madrid while thirty fascist shells crashed through the roof. Later, he was Task Force Hemingway swathed in ammunition belts and defending his post singlehandedly against fierce German (15) attacks. But even without the legend, the chest beating, wisecracking pose that was later to seem so incredibly absurd, his impact upon us was tremendous. The feeling he gave us was one (20) of immense expansiveness, freedom and, at the same time, absolute stability and control. We could follow him, imitate his cold detachment, through all the doubts and fears of adolescence and come out pure and untouched. The words (25) he put down seemed to us to have been carved from the living stone of life. They conveyed exactly the taste, smell and feel of experience as it was, as it might possibly be. And so we began unconsciously to translate our own sensations (30) into their terms and to impose on everything we did and felt the particular emotions they aroused in us. The Hemingway time was a good time to be young. We had much then that the war later (35) forced out of us, something far greater than Hemingway's strong formative influence. Later writers who lost or got rid of Hemingway have been able to find nothing to put in his place. They have rejected his time as untrue (40) for them only to fail at finding themselves in their own time. Others, in their embarrassment at the hold he once had over them, have not profited by the lessons he had to teach, and still others were never touched by him at all. These last are (45) perhaps the real unfortunates, for they have been denied access to a powerful tradition. Passage 2 One wonders why Hemingway's greatest works now seem unable to evoke the same sense of a tottering world that in the 1920s established (50) Ernest Hemingway's reputation. These novels should be speaking to us. Our social structure is as shaken, our philosophical despair as great, our everyday experience as unsatisfying. We have had more war than Hemingway ever dreamed (55) of. Our violence—physical, emotional, and intellectual—is not inferior to that of the 1920s. Yet Hemingway's great novels no longer seem to penetrate deeply the surface of existence. One begins to doubt that they ever did so significantly (60) in the 1920s. Hemingway's novels indulged the dominant genteel tradition in American culture while seeming to repudiate it. They yielded to the functionalist, technological aesthetic of the (65) culture instead of resisting in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hemingway, in effect, became a dupe of his culture rather than its moral-aesthetic conscience. As a consequence, the import of his work has diminished. There is some evidence (70) from his stylistic evolution that Hemingway himself must have felt as much, for Hemingway's famous stylistic economy frequently seems to conceal another kind of writer, with much richer rhetorical resources to hand. So, Death in the (75) Afternoon (1932), Hemingway's bullfighting opus and his first book after A Farewell to Arms (1929), reveals great uneasiness over his earlier accomplishment. In it, he defends his literary method with a doctrine of ambiguity: “If a writer (80) of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.” (85) Hemingway made much the same theoretical point in another way in Death in the Afternoon apparently believing that a formal reduction of aesthetic complexity was the only kind of design that had value. (90) Perhaps the greatest irony of Death in the Afternoon is its unmistakably baroque prose, which Hemingway himself embarrassedly admitted was “flowery.” Reviewers, unable to challenge Hemingway's expertise in the art of (95) bullfighting, noted that its style was “awkward, tortuous, [and] belligerently clumsy.” Death in the Afternoon is an extraordinarily self-indulgent, unruly, clownish, garrulous, and satiric book, with scrambled chronologies, (100) willful digressions, mock-scholarly apparatuses, fictional interludes, and scathing allusions. Its inflated style can hardly penetrate the fagade, let alone deflate humanity. Q. Which of the following best describes how each passage characterizes Hemingway?

Passage 1 portrays him as a tortured poet, but Passage 2 portrays him as a crass amateur.

Passage 1 portrays him as a master of refinement, but Passage 2 portrays him as a literary revolutionary.

Passage 1 portrays him as a hero, but Passage 2 portrays him as a cultural conformist.

Passage 1 portrays him as an absurd warmonger, but Passage 2 portrays him as an undisciplined artist.

Question based on the following passages. Passage 1 is adapted from an essay written by John Aldridge in 1951. ©1951 by John Aldridge. Passage 2 is adapted from Brom Weber, "Ernest Hemingway's Genteel Bullfight," published in The American Novel and the Nineteen Twenties. ©1971 by Hodder Education. Passage 1 By the time we were old enough to read Hemingway, he had become legendary. Like Lord Byron a century earlier, he had learned to play himself, his own best hero, with superb (5) conviction. He was Hemingway of the rugged outdoor grin and the hairy chest posing beside a lion he had just shot. He was Tarzan Hemingway, crouching in the African bush with elephant gun at ready. He was War Correspondent Hemingway (10) writing a play in the Hotel Florida in Madrid while thirty fascist shells crashed through the roof. Later, he was Task Force Hemingway swathed in ammunition belts and defending his post singlehandedly against fierce German (15) attacks. But even without the legend, the chest beating, wisecracking pose that was later to seem so incredibly absurd, his impact upon us was tremendous. The feeling he gave us was one (20) of immense expansiveness, freedom and, at the same time, absolute stability and control. We could follow him, imitate his cold detachment, through all the doubts and fears of adolescence and come out pure and untouched. The words (25) he put down seemed to us to have been carved from the living stone of life. They conveyed exactly the taste, smell and feel of experience as it was, as it might possibly be. And so we began unconsciously to translate our own sensations (30) into their terms and to impose on everything we did and felt the particular emotions they aroused in us. The Hemingway time was a good time to be young. We had much then that the war later (35) forced out of us, something far greater than Hemingway's strong formative influence. Later writers who lost or got rid of Hemingway have been able to find nothing to put in his place. They have rejected his time as untrue (40) for them only to fail at finding themselves in their own time. Others, in their embarrassment at the hold he once had over them, have not profited by the lessons he had to teach, and still others were never touched by him at all. These last are (45) perhaps the real unfortunates, for they have been denied access to a powerful tradition. Passage 2 One wonders why Hemingway's greatest works now seem unable to evoke the same sense of a tottering world that in the 1920s established (50) Ernest Hemingway's reputation. These novels should be speaking to us. Our social structure is as shaken, our philosophical despair as great, our everyday experience as unsatisfying. We have had more war than Hemingway ever dreamed (55) of. Our violence—physical, emotional, and intellectual—is not inferior to that of the 1920s. Yet Hemingway's great novels no longer seem to penetrate deeply the surface of existence. One begins to doubt that they ever did so significantly (60) in the 1920s. Hemingway's novels indulged the dominant genteel tradition in American culture while seeming to repudiate it. They yielded to the functionalist, technological aesthetic of the (65) culture instead of resisting in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hemingway, in effect, became a dupe of his culture rather than its moral-aesthetic conscience. As a consequence, the import of his work has diminished. There is some evidence (70) from his stylistic evolution that Hemingway himself must have felt as much, for Hemingway's famous stylistic economy frequently seems to conceal another kind of writer, with much richer rhetorical resources to hand. So, Death in the (75) Afternoon (1932), Hemingway's bullfighting opus and his first book after A Farewell to Arms (1929), reveals great uneasiness over his earlier accomplishment. In it, he defends his literary method with a doctrine of ambiguity: “If a writer (80) of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.” (85) Hemingway made much the same theoretical point in another way in Death in the Afternoon apparently believing that a formal reduction of aesthetic complexity was the only kind of design that had value. (90) Perhaps the greatest irony of Death in the Afternoon is its unmistakably baroque prose, which Hemingway himself embarrassedly admitted was “flowery.” Reviewers, unable to challenge Hemingway's expertise in the art of (95) bullfighting, noted that its style was “awkward, tortuous, [and] belligerently clumsy.” Death in the Afternoon is an extraordinarily self-indulgent, unruly, clownish, garrulous, and satiric book, with scrambled chronologies, (100) willful digressions, mock-scholarly apparatuses, fictional interludes, and scathing allusions. Its inflated style can hardly penetrate the fagade, let alone deflate humanity. Q. Which statement about Hemingway is supported by both passages?

He was an artistic pioneer, although he was underappreciated in his time.

He was a consistent practitioner of spare and evocative prose.

His characters serve as archetypes for masculine adventure.

His wartime narratives do not fully capture the horrors of war.

Question based on the following passages. Passage 1 is adapted from an essay written by John Aldridge in 1951. ©1951 by John Aldridge. Passage 2 is adapted from Brom Weber, "Ernest Hemingway's Genteel Bullfight," published in The American Novel and the Nineteen Twenties. ©1971 by Hodder Education. Passage 1 By the time we were old enough to read Hemingway, he had become legendary. Like Lord Byron a century earlier, he had learned to play himself, his own best hero, with superb (5) conviction. He was Hemingway of the rugged outdoor grin and the hairy chest posing beside a lion he had just shot. He was Tarzan Hemingway, crouching in the African bush with elephant gun at ready. He was War Correspondent Hemingway (10) writing a play in the Hotel Florida in Madrid while thirty fascist shells crashed through the roof. Later, he was Task Force Hemingway swathed in ammunition belts and defending his post singlehandedly against fierce German (15) attacks. But even without the legend, the chest beating, wisecracking pose that was later to seem so incredibly absurd, his impact upon us was tremendous. The feeling he gave us was one (20) of immense expansiveness, freedom and, at the same time, absolute stability and control. We could follow him, imitate his cold detachment, through all the doubts and fears of adolescence and come out pure and untouched. The words (25) he put down seemed to us to have been carved from the living stone of life. They conveyed exactly the taste, smell and feel of experience as it was, as it might possibly be. And so we began unconsciously to translate our own sensations (30) into their terms and to impose on everything we did and felt the particular emotions they aroused in us. The Hemingway time was a good time to be young. We had much then that the war later (35) forced out of us, something far greater than Hemingway's strong formative influence. Later writers who lost or got rid of Hemingway have been able to find nothing to put in his place. They have rejected his time as untrue (40) for them only to fail at finding themselves in their own time. Others, in their embarrassment at the hold he once had over them, have not profited by the lessons he had to teach, and still others were never touched by him at all. These last are (45) perhaps the real unfortunates, for they have been denied access to a powerful tradition. Passage 2 One wonders why Hemingway's greatest works now seem unable to evoke the same sense of a tottering world that in the 1920s established (50) Ernest Hemingway's reputation. These novels should be speaking to us. Our social structure is as shaken, our philosophical despair as great, our everyday experience as unsatisfying. We have had more war than Hemingway ever dreamed (55) of. Our violence—physical, emotional, and intellectual—is not inferior to that of the 1920s. Yet Hemingway's great novels no longer seem to penetrate deeply the surface of existence. One begins to doubt that they ever did so significantly (60) in the 1920s. Hemingway's novels indulged the dominant genteel tradition in American culture while seeming to repudiate it. They yielded to the functionalist, technological aesthetic of the (65) culture instead of resisting in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hemingway, in effect, became a dupe of his culture rather than its moral-aesthetic conscience. As a consequence, the import of his work has diminished. There is some evidence (70) from his stylistic evolution that Hemingway himself must have felt as much, for Hemingway's famous stylistic economy frequently seems to conceal another kind of writer, with much richer rhetorical resources to hand. So, Death in the (75) Afternoon (1932), Hemingway's bullfighting opus and his first book after A Farewell to Arms (1929), reveals great uneasiness over his earlier accomplishment. In it, he defends his literary method with a doctrine of ambiguity: “If a writer (80) of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.” (85) Hemingway made much the same theoretical point in another way in Death in the Afternoon apparently believing that a formal reduction of aesthetic complexity was the only kind of design that had value. (90) Perhaps the greatest irony of Death in the Afternoon is its unmistakably baroque prose, which Hemingway himself embarrassedly admitted was “flowery.” Reviewers, unable to challenge Hemingway's expertise in the art of (95) bullfighting, noted that its style was “awkward, tortuous, [and] belligerently clumsy.” Death in the Afternoon is an extraordinarily self-indulgent, unruly, clownish, garrulous, and satiric book, with scrambled chronologies, (100) willful digressions, mock-scholarly apparatuses, fictional interludes, and scathing allusions. Its inflated style can hardly penetrate the fagade, let alone deflate humanity. Q. Lines 28–32 (“And so we . . . aroused in us”) suggests that many of Hemingway’s readers were inclined to

resent his glorification of war.

Question based on the following passages. Passage 1 is adapted from an essay written by John Aldridge in 1951. ©1951 by John Aldridge. Passage 2 is adapted from Brom Weber, "Ernest Hemingway's Genteel Bullfight," published in The American Novel and the Nineteen Twenties. ©1971 by Hodder Education. Passage 1 By the time we were old enough to read Hemingway, he had become legendary. Like Lord Byron a century earlier, he had learned to play himself, his own best hero, with superb (5) conviction. He was Hemingway of the rugged outdoor grin and the hairy chest posing beside a lion he had just shot. He was Tarzan Hemingway, crouching in the African bush with elephant gun at ready. He was War Correspondent Hemingway (10) writing a play in the Hotel Florida in Madrid while thirty fascist shells crashed through the roof. Later, he was Task Force Hemingway swathed in ammunition belts and defending his post singlehandedly against fierce German (15) attacks. But even without the legend, the chest beating, wisecracking pose that was later to seem so incredibly absurd, his impact upon us was tremendous. The feeling he gave us was one (20) of immense expansiveness, freedom and, at the same time, absolute stability and control. We could follow him, imitate his cold detachment, through all the doubts and fears of adolescence and come out pure and untouched. The words (25) he put down seemed to us to have been carved from the living stone of life. They conveyed exactly the taste, smell and feel of experience as it was, as it might possibly be. And so we began unconsciously to translate our own sensations (30) into their terms and to impose on everything we did and felt the particular emotions they aroused in us. The Hemingway time was a good time to be young. We had much then that the war later (35) forced out of us, something far greater than Hemingway's strong formative influence. Later writers who lost or got rid of Hemingway have been able to find nothing to put in his place. They have rejected his time as untrue (40) for them only to fail at finding themselves in their own time. Others, in their embarrassment at the hold he once had over them, have not profited by the lessons he had to teach, and still others were never touched by him at all. These last are (45) perhaps the real unfortunates, for they have been denied access to a powerful tradition. Passage 2 One wonders why Hemingway's greatest works now seem unable to evoke the same sense of a tottering world that in the 1920s established (50) Ernest Hemingway's reputation. These novels should be speaking to us. Our social structure is as shaken, our philosophical despair as great, our everyday experience as unsatisfying. We have had more war than Hemingway ever dreamed (55) of. Our violence—physical, emotional, and intellectual—is not inferior to that of the 1920s. Yet Hemingway's great novels no longer seem to penetrate deeply the surface of existence. One begins to doubt that they ever did so significantly (60) in the 1920s. Hemingway's novels indulged the dominant genteel tradition in American culture while seeming to repudiate it. They yielded to the functionalist, technological aesthetic of the (65) culture instead of resisting in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hemingway, in effect, became a dupe of his culture rather than its moral-aesthetic conscience. As a consequence, the import of his work has diminished. There is some evidence (70) from his stylistic evolution that Hemingway himself must have felt as much, for Hemingway's famous stylistic economy frequently seems to conceal another kind of writer, with much richer rhetorical resources to hand. So, Death in the (75) Afternoon (1932), Hemingway's bullfighting opus and his first book after A Farewell to Arms (1929), reveals great uneasiness over his earlier accomplishment. In it, he defends his literary method with a doctrine of ambiguity: “If a writer (80) of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.” (85) Hemingway made much the same theoretical point in another way in Death in the Afternoon apparently believing that a formal reduction of aesthetic complexity was the only kind of design that had value. (90) Perhaps the greatest irony of Death in the Afternoon is its unmistakably baroque prose, which Hemingway himself embarrassedly admitted was “flowery.” Reviewers, unable to challenge Hemingway's expertise in the art of (95) bullfighting, noted that its style was “awkward, tortuous, [and] belligerently clumsy.” Death in the Afternoon is an extraordinarily self-indulgent, unruly, clownish, garrulous, and satiric book, with scrambled chronologies, (100) willful digressions, mock-scholarly apparatuses, fictional interludes, and scathing allusions. Its inflated style can hardly penetrate the fagade, let alone deflate humanity. Q. The “lessons” mentioned in line 43 most likely include stories of

confidence in the face of danger.

corporate or political ambition.

Question based on the following passages. Passage 1 is adapted from an essay written by John Aldridge in 1951. ©1951 by John Aldridge. Passage 2 is adapted from Brom Weber, "Ernest Hemingway's Genteel Bullfight," published in The American Novel and the Nineteen Twenties. ©1971 by Hodder Education. Passage 1 By the time we were old enough to read Hemingway, he had become legendary. Like Lord Byron a century earlier, he had learned to play himself, his own best hero, with superb (5) conviction. He was Hemingway of the rugged outdoor grin and the hairy chest posing beside a lion he had just shot. He was Tarzan Hemingway, crouching in the African bush with elephant gun at ready. He was War Correspondent Hemingway (10) writing a play in the Hotel Florida in Madrid while thirty fascist shells crashed through the roof. Later, he was Task Force Hemingway swathed in ammunition belts and defending his post singlehandedly against fierce German (15) attacks. But even without the legend, the chest beating, wisecracking pose that was later to seem so incredibly absurd, his impact upon us was tremendous. The feeling he gave us was one (20) of immense expansiveness, freedom and, at the same time, absolute stability and control. We could follow him, imitate his cold detachment, through all the doubts and fears of adolescence and come out pure and untouched. The words (25) he put down seemed to us to have been carved from the living stone of life. They conveyed exactly the taste, smell and feel of experience as it was, as it might possibly be. And so we began unconsciously to translate our own sensations (30) into their terms and to impose on everything we did and felt the particular emotions they aroused in us. The Hemingway time was a good time to be young. We had much then that the war later (35) forced out of us, something far greater than Hemingway's strong formative influence. Later writers who lost or got rid of Hemingway have been able to find nothing to put in his place. They have rejected his time as untrue (40) for them only to fail at finding themselves in their own time. Others, in their embarrassment at the hold he once had over them, have not profited by the lessons he had to teach, and still others were never touched by him at all. These last are (45) perhaps the real unfortunates, for they have been denied access to a powerful tradition. Passage 2 One wonders why Hemingway's greatest works now seem unable to evoke the same sense of a tottering world that in the 1920s established (50) Ernest Hemingway's reputation. These novels should be speaking to us. Our social structure is as shaken, our philosophical despair as great, our everyday experience as unsatisfying. We have had more war than Hemingway ever dreamed (55) of. Our violence—physical, emotional, and intellectual—is not inferior to that of the 1920s. Yet Hemingway's great novels no longer seem to penetrate deeply the surface of existence. One begins to doubt that they ever did so significantly (60) in the 1920s. Hemingway's novels indulged the dominant genteel tradition in American culture while seeming to repudiate it. They yielded to the functionalist, technological aesthetic of the (65) culture instead of resisting in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright. Hemingway, in effect, became a dupe of his culture rather than its moral-aesthetic conscience. As a consequence, the import of his work has diminished. There is some evidence (70) from his stylistic evolution that Hemingway himself must have felt as much, for Hemingway's famous stylistic economy frequently seems to conceal another kind of writer, with much richer rhetorical resources to hand. So, Death in the (75) Afternoon (1932), Hemingway's bullfighting opus and his first book after A Farewell to Arms (1929), reveals great uneasiness over his earlier accomplishment. In it, he defends his literary method with a doctrine of ambiguity: “If a writer (80) of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them.” (85) Hemingway made much the same theoretical point in another way in Death in the Afternoon apparently believing that a formal reduction of aesthetic complexity was the only kind of design that had value. (90) Perhaps the greatest irony of Death in the Afternoon is its unmistakably baroque prose, which Hemingway himself embarrassedly admitted was “flowery.” Reviewers, unable to challenge Hemingway's expertise in the art of (95) bullfighting, noted that its style was “awkward, tortuous, [and] belligerently clumsy.” Death in the Afternoon is an extraordinarily self-indulgent, unruly, clownish, garrulous, and satiric book, with scrambled chronologies, (100) willful digressions, mock-scholarly apparatuses, fictional interludes, and scathing allusions. Its inflated style can hardly penetrate the fagade, let alone deflate humanity. Q. Which statement provides the best evidence for the answer to the previous question?

Lines 2–5 (“Like Lord . . . superb conviction”)

Lines 28–32 (“And so . . . aroused in us”)

Lines 34–36 (“We had much . . . formative influence”)

Lines 39–41 (“They have rejected . . . own time”)

Question based on the following passage. This passage is from S. K. Mukherjee, “The Mysteries of the Strong Nuclear Force ." ©2015 College Hill Coaching. As any good contractor will tell you, a sound structure requires stable materials. But atoms, the building blocks of everything we know and love—bunnies, brownies, and best friends— (5) don't appear to be models of stability. Why are some atoms, like sodium, so hyperactive while others, like helium, are so aloof? Why do the electrons that inhabit atoms jump around so strangely, from one bizarrely shaped orbital to (10) another? And why do protons, the bits that give atoms their heft and personality, stick together at all? We are told that every atom has a tiny nucleus containing positively charged protons (15) and uncharged neutrons, swarmed by a cloud of speedy electrons. We are also told that like charges, such as protons, repel each other with a force that shoots up to infinity as they get closer. Even worse, you can't get much closer (20) than two protons in the nucleus of an atom. So what's keeping atomic nuclei from flying apart? Obviously, some other force must be at work inside the atom, something that we can't detect at our human scale. Physicists call this the (25) “strong nuclear force.” But where does it come from? In order for this force to account for the binding of protons in the nucleus, it must have certain interesting features. First, it can't have any (30) sizeable effect beyond the radius of the atom itself, or it would play havoc with the nuclei of adjacent atoms, destroying matter as we know it. Second, it must perfectly balance the repulsive force of electricity at an “equilibrium point” of about (35) 0.7 x 10 -15 meters, the average distance between bound protons, in order to create a stable nucleus. Third, it must repel at even shorter distances, or else neutrons (which don't have any electrostatic repulsion to balance the strong nuclear force) (40) would collapse into each other. The graph shows the behavior of such a force relative to the repulsive electrostatic force. In 1935, Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa proposed that the nuclear force was conveyed by (45) a then-undiscovered heavy subatomic particle he called the pi meson (or “pion”), which (unlike the photon, which conveys the electrostatic force) decays very quickly and therefore conveys a powerful force only over a very short distance. (50) Professor Yukawa's theory, however, was dealt a mortal blow by a series of experiments conducted at Los Alamos National Laboratory in the early 1990s that demonstrated that pions carry force only over distances greater than the (55) distance between bound protons. The pion was a plumber's wrench trying to do a tweezer's job. Current atomic theory suggests that the strong nuclear force is most likely conveyed by massless particles called “gluons” according (60) to the theory of quantum chromodynamics, or QCD for short. According to QCD, protons and neutrons are composed of smaller particles called quarks, which are held together by the aptly named gluons. This quark-binding force has (65) a “residue” that extends beyond the protons and neutrons themselves to provide just enough force to bind the protons and neutrons together. If you're hoping that QCD ties up atomic behavior with a tidy little bow, you may be just (70) a bit disappointed. As a quantum theory, it conceives of space and time as tiny chunks that occasionally misbehave, rather than smooth predictable quantities, and its mathematical formulas are perhaps as hard to penetrate as the (75) nucleus itself. Q. The primary purpose of the first paragraph (lines 1–12) is to

describe a popular misconception.

suggest a scientific conundrum.

Question based on the following passage. This passage is from S. K. Mukherjee, “The Mysteries of the Strong Nuclear Force ." ©2015 College Hill Coaching. As any good contractor will tell you, a sound structure requires stable materials. But atoms, the building blocks of everything we know and love—bunnies, brownies, and best friends— (5) don't appear to be models of stability. Why are some atoms, like sodium, so hyperactive while others, like helium, are so aloof? Why do the electrons that inhabit atoms jump around so strangely, from one bizarrely shaped orbital to (10) another? And why do protons, the bits that give atoms their heft and personality, stick together at all? We are told that every atom has a tiny nucleus containing positively charged protons (15) and uncharged neutrons, swarmed by a cloud of speedy electrons. We are also told that like charges, such as protons, repel each other with a force that shoots up to infinity as they get closer. Even worse, you can't get much closer (20) than two protons in the nucleus of an atom. So what's keeping atomic nuclei from flying apart? Obviously, some other force must be at work inside the atom, something that we can't detect at our human scale. Physicists call this the (25) “strong nuclear force.” But where does it come from? In order for this force to account for the binding of protons in the nucleus, it must have certain interesting features. First, it can't have any (30) sizeable effect beyond the radius of the atom itself, or it would play havoc with the nuclei of adjacent atoms, destroying matter as we know it. Second, it must perfectly balance the repulsive force of electricity at an “equilibrium point” of about (35) 0.7 x 10 -15 meters, the average distance between bound protons, in order to create a stable nucleus. Third, it must repel at even shorter distances, or else neutrons (which don't have any electrostatic repulsion to balance the strong nuclear force) (40) would collapse into each other. The graph shows the behavior of such a force relative to the repulsive electrostatic force. In 1935, Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa proposed that the nuclear force was conveyed by (45) a then-undiscovered heavy subatomic particle he called the pi meson (or “pion”), which (unlike the photon, which conveys the electrostatic force) decays very quickly and therefore conveys a powerful force only over a very short distance. (50) Professor Yukawa's theory, however, was dealt a mortal blow by a series of experiments conducted at Los Alamos National Laboratory in the early 1990s that demonstrated that pions carry force only over distances greater than the (55) distance between bound protons. The pion was a plumber's wrench trying to do a tweezer's job. Current atomic theory suggests that the strong nuclear force is most likely conveyed by massless particles called “gluons” according (60) to the theory of quantum chromodynamics, or QCD for short. According to QCD, protons and neutrons are composed of smaller particles called quarks, which are held together by the aptly named gluons. This quark-binding force has (65) a “residue” that extends beyond the protons and neutrons themselves to provide just enough force to bind the protons and neutrons together. If you're hoping that QCD ties up atomic behavior with a tidy little bow, you may be just (70) a bit disappointed. As a quantum theory, it conceives of space and time as tiny chunks that occasionally misbehave, rather than smooth predictable quantities, and its mathematical formulas are perhaps as hard to penetrate as the (75) nucleus itself. Q. The question in lines 10–12 (“And why . . . at all?”) indicates

a minor curiosity to scientists exploring deeper questions.

a socially significant puzzle that is unfortunately ignored in scientific circles.

a humorous irony in an other wise serious field of investigation.

a central conundrum at the heart of an important scientific field.

Question based on the following passage. This passage is from S. K. Mukherjee, “The Mysteries of the Strong Nuclear Force ." ©2015 College Hill Coaching. As any good contractor will tell you, a sound structure requires stable materials. But atoms, the building blocks of everything we know and love—bunnies, brownies, and best friends— (5) don't appear to be models of stability. Why are some atoms, like sodium, so hyperactive while others, like helium, are so aloof? Why do the electrons that inhabit atoms jump around so strangely, from one bizarrely shaped orbital to (10) another? And why do protons, the bits that give atoms their heft and personality, stick together at all? We are told that every atom has a tiny nucleus containing positively charged protons (15) and uncharged neutrons, swarmed by a cloud of speedy electrons. We are also told that like charges, such as protons, repel each other with a force that shoots up to infinity as they get closer. Even worse, you can't get much closer (20) than two protons in the nucleus of an atom. So what's keeping atomic nuclei from flying apart? Obviously, some other force must be at work inside the atom, something that we can't detect at our human scale. Physicists call this the (25) “strong nuclear force.” But where does it come from? In order for this force to account for the binding of protons in the nucleus, it must have certain interesting features. First, it can't have any (30) sizeable effect beyond the radius of the atom itself, or it would play havoc with the nuclei of adjacent atoms, destroying matter as we know it. Second, it must perfectly balance the repulsive force of electricity at an “equilibrium point” of about (35) 0.7 x 10 -15 meters, the average distance between bound protons, in order to create a stable nucleus. Third, it must repel at even shorter distances, or else neutrons (which don't have any electrostatic repulsion to balance the strong nuclear force) (40) would collapse into each other. The graph shows the behavior of such a force relative to the repulsive electrostatic force. In 1935, Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa proposed that the nuclear force was conveyed by (45) a then-undiscovered heavy subatomic particle he called the pi meson (or “pion”), which (unlike the photon, which conveys the electrostatic force) decays very quickly and therefore conveys a powerful force only over a very short distance. (50) Professor Yukawa's theory, however, was dealt a mortal blow by a series of experiments conducted at Los Alamos National Laboratory in the early 1990s that demonstrated that pions carry force only over distances greater than the (55) distance between bound protons. The pion was a plumber's wrench trying to do a tweezer's job. Current atomic theory suggests that the strong nuclear force is most likely conveyed by massless particles called “gluons” according (60) to the theory of quantum chromodynamics, or QCD for short. According to QCD, protons and neutrons are composed of smaller particles called quarks, which are held together by the aptly named gluons. This quark-binding force has (65) a “residue” that extends beyond the protons and neutrons themselves to provide just enough force to bind the protons and neutrons together. If you're hoping that QCD ties up atomic behavior with a tidy little bow, you may be just (70) a bit disappointed. As a quantum theory, it conceives of space and time as tiny chunks that occasionally misbehave, rather than smooth predictable quantities, and its mathematical formulas are perhaps as hard to penetrate as the (75) nucleus itself. Q. Which sentence provides the best evidence for the answer to the previous question?

Lines 2–5 (“But atoms . . . stability”)

Lines 19–20 (“Even worse . . . an atom”)

Lines 55–56 (“The pion . . . tweezer’s job”)

Lines 68–70 (“If you’re . . . disappointed”)

Question based on the following passage. This passage is from S. K. Mukherjee, “The Mysteries of the Strong Nuclear Force ." ©2015 College Hill Coaching. As any good contractor will tell you, a sound structure requires stable materials. But atoms, the building blocks of everything we know and love—bunnies, brownies, and best friends— (5) don't appear to be models of stability. Why are some atoms, like sodium, so hyperactive while others, like helium, are so aloof? Why do the electrons that inhabit atoms jump around so strangely, from one bizarrely shaped orbital to (10) another? And why do protons, the bits that give atoms their heft and personality, stick together at all? We are told that every atom has a tiny nucleus containing positively charged protons (15) and uncharged neutrons, swarmed by a cloud of speedy electrons. We are also told that like charges, such as protons, repel each other with a force that shoots up to infinity as they get closer. Even worse, you can't get much closer (20) than two protons in the nucleus of an atom. So what's keeping atomic nuclei from flying apart? Obviously, some other force must be at work inside the atom, something that we can't detect at our human scale. Physicists call this the (25) “strong nuclear force.” But where does it come from? In order for this force to account for the binding of protons in the nucleus, it must have certain interesting features. First, it can't have any (30) sizeable effect beyond the radius of the atom itself, or it would play havoc with the nuclei of adjacent atoms, destroying matter as we know it. Second, it must perfectly balance the repulsive force of electricity at an “equilibrium point” of about (35) 0.7 x 10 -15 meters, the average distance between bound protons, in order to create a stable nucleus. Third, it must repel at even shorter distances, or else neutrons (which don't have any electrostatic repulsion to balance the strong nuclear force) (40) would collapse into each other. The graph shows the behavior of such a force relative to the repulsive electrostatic force. In 1935, Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa proposed that the nuclear force was conveyed by (45) a then-undiscovered heavy subatomic particle he called the pi meson (or “pion”), which (unlike the photon, which conveys the electrostatic force) decays very quickly and therefore conveys a powerful force only over a very short distance. (50) Professor Yukawa's theory, however, was dealt a mortal blow by a series of experiments conducted at Los Alamos National Laboratory in the early 1990s that demonstrated that pions carry force only over distances greater than the (55) distance between bound protons. The pion was a plumber's wrench trying to do a tweezer's job. Current atomic theory suggests that the strong nuclear force is most likely conveyed by massless particles called “gluons” according (60) to the theory of quantum chromodynamics, or QCD for short. According to QCD, protons and neutrons are composed of smaller particles called quarks, which are held together by the aptly named gluons. This quark-binding force has (65) a “residue” that extends beyond the protons and neutrons themselves to provide just enough force to bind the protons and neutrons together. If you're hoping that QCD ties up atomic behavior with a tidy little bow, you may be just (70) a bit disappointed. As a quantum theory, it conceives of space and time as tiny chunks that occasionally misbehave, rather than smooth predictable quantities, and its mathematical formulas are perhaps as hard to penetrate as the (75) nucleus itself. Q. In lines 13–16, the repetition of the phrase “We are” serves primarily to emphasize

the predominance of certain conceptions.

the personal nature of scientific research.

the effectiveness of a particular analogy.

the deficiencies in public education.

Question based on the following passage. This passage is from S. K. Mukherjee, “The Mysteries of the Strong Nuclear Force ." ©2015 College Hill Coaching. As any good contractor will tell you, a sound structure requires stable materials. But atoms, the building blocks of everything we know and love—bunnies, brownies, and best friends— (5) don't appear to be models of stability. Why are some atoms, like sodium, so hyperactive while others, like helium, are so aloof? Why do the electrons that inhabit atoms jump around so strangely, from one bizarrely shaped orbital to (10) another? And why do protons, the bits that give atoms their heft and personality, stick together at all? We are told that every atom has a tiny nucleus containing positively charged protons (15) and uncharged neutrons, swarmed by a cloud of speedy electrons. We are also told that like charges, such as protons, repel each other with a force that shoots up to infinity as they get closer. Even worse, you can't get much closer (20) than two protons in the nucleus of an atom. So what's keeping atomic nuclei from flying apart? Obviously, some other force must be at work inside the atom, something that we can't detect at our human scale. Physicists call this the (25) “strong nuclear force.” But where does it come from? In order for this force to account for the binding of protons in the nucleus, it must have certain interesting features. First, it can't have any (30) sizeable effect beyond the radius of the atom itself, or it would play havoc with the nuclei of adjacent atoms, destroying matter as we know it. Second, it must perfectly balance the repulsive force of electricity at an “equilibrium point” of about (35) 0.7 x 10 -15 meters, the average distance between bound protons, in order to create a stable nucleus. Third, it must repel at even shorter distances, or else neutrons (which don't have any electrostatic repulsion to balance the strong nuclear force) (40) would collapse into each other. The graph shows the behavior of such a force relative to the repulsive electrostatic force. In 1935, Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa proposed that the nuclear force was conveyed by (45) a then-undiscovered heavy subatomic particle he called the pi meson (or “pion”), which (unlike the photon, which conveys the electrostatic force) decays very quickly and therefore conveys a powerful force only over a very short distance. (50) Professor Yukawa's theory, however, was dealt a mortal blow by a series of experiments conducted at Los Alamos National Laboratory in the early 1990s that demonstrated that pions carry force only over distances greater than the (55) distance between bound protons. The pion was a plumber's wrench trying to do a tweezer's job. Current atomic theory suggests that the strong nuclear force is most likely conveyed by massless particles called “gluons” according (60) to the theory of quantum chromodynamics, or QCD for short. According to QCD, protons and neutrons are composed of smaller particles called quarks, which are held together by the aptly named gluons. This quark-binding force has (65) a “residue” that extends beyond the protons and neutrons themselves to provide just enough force to bind the protons and neutrons together. If you're hoping that QCD ties up atomic behavior with a tidy little bow, you may be just (70) a bit disappointed. As a quantum theory, it conceives of space and time as tiny chunks that occasionally misbehave, rather than smooth predictable quantities, and its mathematical formulas are perhaps as hard to penetrate as the (75) nucleus itself. Q. Which of the following best describes the relationship between the electrostatic force and the strong nuclear force between protons at the equilibrium point as shown in the graph?

The strong nuclear force is at its maximum, but the electrostatic force is not.

The strong nuclear force is at its minimum, but the electrostatic force is near its maximum.

The sum of the two forces is zero.

The strong nuclear force is zero and the electrostatic force is greater than 100 Newtons.

Question based on the following passage. This passage is from S. K. Mukherjee, “The Mysteries of the Strong Nuclear Force ." ©2015 College Hill Coaching. As any good contractor will tell you, a sound structure requires stable materials. But atoms, the building blocks of everything we know and love—bunnies, brownies, and best friends— (5) don't appear to be models of stability. Why are some atoms, like sodium, so hyperactive while others, like helium, are so aloof? Why do the electrons that inhabit atoms jump around so strangely, from one bizarrely shaped orbital to (10) another? And why do protons, the bits that give atoms their heft and personality, stick together at all? We are told that every atom has a tiny nucleus containing positively charged protons (15) and uncharged neutrons, swarmed by a cloud of speedy electrons. We are also told that like charges, such as protons, repel each other with a force that shoots up to infinity as they get closer. Even worse, you can't get much closer (20) than two protons in the nucleus of an atom. So what's keeping atomic nuclei from flying apart? Obviously, some other force must be at work inside the atom, something that we can't detect at our human scale. Physicists call this the (25) “strong nuclear force.” But where does it come from? In order for this force to account for the binding of protons in the nucleus, it must have certain interesting features. First, it can't have any (30) sizeable effect beyond the radius of the atom itself, or it would play havoc with the nuclei of adjacent atoms, destroying matter as we know it. Second, it must perfectly balance the repulsive force of electricity at an “equilibrium point” of about (35) 0.7 x 10 -15 meters, the average distance between bound protons, in order to create a stable nucleus. Third, it must repel at even shorter distances, or else neutrons (which don't have any electrostatic repulsion to balance the strong nuclear force) (40) would collapse into each other. The graph shows the behavior of such a force relative to the repulsive electrostatic force. In 1935, Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa proposed that the nuclear force was conveyed by (45) a then-undiscovered heavy subatomic particle he called the pi meson (or “pion”), which (unlike the photon, which conveys the electrostatic force) decays very quickly and therefore conveys a powerful force only over a very short distance. (50) Professor Yukawa's theory, however, was dealt a mortal blow by a series of experiments conducted at Los Alamos National Laboratory in the early 1990s that demonstrated that pions carry force only over distances greater than the (55) distance between bound protons. The pion was a plumber's wrench trying to do a tweezer's job. Current atomic theory suggests that the strong nuclear force is most likely conveyed by massless particles called “gluons” according (60) to the theory of quantum chromodynamics, or QCD for short. According to QCD, protons and neutrons are composed of smaller particles called quarks, which are held together by the aptly named gluons. This quark-binding force has (65) a “residue” that extends beyond the protons and neutrons themselves to provide just enough force to bind the protons and neutrons together. If you're hoping that QCD ties up atomic behavior with a tidy little bow, you may be just (70) a bit disappointed. As a quantum theory, it conceives of space and time as tiny chunks that occasionally misbehave, rather than smooth predictable quantities, and its mathematical formulas are perhaps as hard to penetrate as the (75) nucleus itself. Q. The “mortal blow” (line 51) to Hideki Yukawa’s theory was the fact that

the existence of pions was not confirmed by experimental evidence.

pions were discovered to be massless, thereby refuting his theory that they were heavy.

experiments showed pions to be ineffective in the range required by atomic theory.

pions had a destabilizing effect on atomic nuclei, rather than a stabilizing one.

Question based on the following passage. This passage is from S. K. Mukherjee, “The Mysteries of the Strong Nuclear Force ." ©2015 College Hill Coaching. As any good contractor will tell you, a sound structure requires stable materials. But atoms, the building blocks of everything we know and love—bunnies, brownies, and best friends— (5) don't appear to be models of stability. Why are some atoms, like sodium, so hyperactive while others, like helium, are so aloof? Why do the electrons that inhabit atoms jump around so strangely, from one bizarrely shaped orbital to (10) another? And why do protons, the bits that give atoms their heft and personality, stick together at all? We are told that every atom has a tiny nucleus containing positively charged protons (15) and uncharged neutrons, swarmed by a cloud of speedy electrons. We are also told that like charges, such as protons, repel each other with a force that shoots up to infinity as they get closer. Even worse, you can't get much closer (20) than two protons in the nucleus of an atom. So what's keeping atomic nuclei from flying apart? Obviously, some other force must be at work inside the atom, something that we can't detect at our human scale. Physicists call this the (25) “strong nuclear force.” But where does it come from? In order for this force to account for the binding of protons in the nucleus, it must have certain interesting features. First, it can't have any (30) sizeable effect beyond the radius of the atom itself, or it would play havoc with the nuclei of adjacent atoms, destroying matter as we know it. Second, it must perfectly balance the repulsive force of electricity at an “equilibrium point” of about (35) 0.7 x 10 -15 meters, the average distance between bound protons, in order to create a stable nucleus. Third, it must repel at even shorter distances, or else neutrons (which don't have any electrostatic repulsion to balance the strong nuclear force) (40) would collapse into each other. The graph shows the behavior of such a force relative to the repulsive electrostatic force. In 1935, Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa proposed that the nuclear force was conveyed by (45) a then-undiscovered heavy subatomic particle he called the pi meson (or “pion”), which (unlike the photon, which conveys the electrostatic force) decays very quickly and therefore conveys a powerful force only over a very short distance. (50) Professor Yukawa's theory, however, was dealt a mortal blow by a series of experiments conducted at Los Alamos National Laboratory in the early 1990s that demonstrated that pions carry force only over distances greater than the (55) distance between bound protons. The pion was a plumber's wrench trying to do a tweezer's job. Current atomic theory suggests that the strong nuclear force is most likely conveyed by massless particles called “gluons” according (60) to the theory of quantum chromodynamics, or QCD for short. According to QCD, protons and neutrons are composed of smaller particles called quarks, which are held together by the aptly named gluons. This quark-binding force has (65) a “residue” that extends beyond the protons and neutrons themselves to provide just enough force to bind the protons and neutrons together. If you're hoping that QCD ties up atomic behavior with a tidy little bow, you may be just (70) a bit disappointed. As a quantum theory, it conceives of space and time as tiny chunks that occasionally misbehave, rather than smooth predictable quantities, and its mathematical formulas are perhaps as hard to penetrate as the (75) nucleus itself. Q. Which of the following best describes the structure of the passage as a whole?

a series of intuitive illustrations of a complex physical theory

a description of a technical puzzle and the attempts to solve it

an account of an experimental finding and its surprising implications

a historical over view of a heated scientific controversy

OneTime: Digital SAT Mock Test - 7 Free MCQ Practice Test with Solutions

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