He copied other people’s ideas in writing his new book，which is a kind of copywrite( )

With( )and fashionable elements，Beijing attracts a large number of young people every year.

The bomb destroyed a police station and damaged a church( )

The color in her shirt( )gently after it was washed by washing machine.

The answers to the problem，the scientists say，is to build up the immune system，which not only will give greater( )to disease but will boost cellular regeneration and improve the skin.

The computer center，( )last year，is very popular among the students in this school.

Industrialization of sofware trade leads to the production of software( ).

The heart is( )intelligent than the stomach，for they are both controlled by the brain.

There is no reason they should limit how much vitamin you take，( )they can limit how much water you drink.

The path in the park looked beautiful，( )with( )leaves.

The captain and his crews depended on the( )of navigation- the compass for orientation.

( )，domesticated grapes grow in clusters，range in color from pale green to black，and contain sugar in varying quantities.

In an effort to( )culture shocks，I think it is necessary to know something about the nature of culture.

I don’t think it advisable that Tim( )to the job since he has no experience.

The scents of the flowers were( )to us by the breeze.

I just wonder( )that makes him so excited.

They gave each other a big hug with( )，since they haven’t seen each other for 15 years.

The social workers tried to( )the juvenile delinquents.

We( )the radio signals for help from the ship.

My watch fell down on the ground and there was a hairline crack in the( )of dial plate.

The UN put the( )forward so as to better cope with the tense situation in the Middle East.

My grandparents always enjoy the( )of their relatives.

When did the Australian Constitution take effect？( )

Which one is the national sport of Canada？( )

The“first Americans”are( )

Of the fifty states，the smallest state in America is( )

According to the Official Language of Act of Canada，there are two official languages in Canada，they are( )

The capital city of Canada is( )

The Hundred Year’s War lasted from 1337 to 1453 between Britain and( )

The Commonwealth of Nations is an association of independent countries ( )

Easter is a holiday usually connected to the following except( )

( ) was honored as“the Father of English Poetry

Sister Carrie is a masterpiece of ( )work.

( ) is commonly considered to be the beginning of English literature and is the oldest surviving epic in English literature

Of the following writers，( )is NOT a Nobel Prize Winner.

( ) is NOT included in the modernist group

Which of the following doesn′t belong to the Cooperative Principle？( )

Which of the following words is made up of bound morphemes only？( )

Which of the following pairs is not a minimal pair？( )

( ) is the defining properties of units like number， gender， case.

“Hen”is called“母鸡” in Chinese and“poule” in French.What design feature of language is reflected ( ) in the example？

A ( ) is not a sound， it is a collection of distinctive phonetic features.

( ) refers to a construction where one clause is coordinated with another.

( ) is regarded as the “father of free verse” .

Henry Fielding′s ( )indicates the genre of novel has got to the mature period.

Which of the fllowing is not included in the design features of language？( )

( ) is a relationship in which a word of a certain class determines the form of others in terms of certain categories.

Among the following poets， who is NOT a lake poet？( )

I was eight years old the first time I fainted. I was at friend’s house, and a bee stung me on the back of the neck. I had felt nothing but a slight pinch and the bug was soon wiped away and flushed down the toilet, but since I looked pale I was urged to call my mother. As I told her what had happened, I felt myself blacking out, sinking to the floor, vaguely aware that I was still gripping the receiver.

　　Perhaps I was allergic to the bee sting—the only one I’ve ever gotten, although to this day I have a phobia about bees, wasps, and other insects. But the image of an eight-year-old in Keds crumpling to the ground while he describes his injury to his Mommy seems to return us to Freudian territory. Note the umbilical image of the phone cord.

　　Call me fanciful. Still, I’m afraid these undertones are hardly dissipated by the second fainting incident I can recall, which practically reeks of the family romance. This took place one weekend morning while we were gathered in the kitchen to eat breakfast. My mother stood at the stove making French toast, which she had already served to the kids; my father, seated at the table, was cutting a bagel with a sharp bread knife. Contrary to every principle of kitchen safety, he was holding the bagel in his hand and cutting inward, and eventually he made a neat, shallow incision in his palm. The blood was profuse.

　　Being a hematologist, my father didn’t panic: this was just business as usual. But my mother stopped flipping French toast and collapsed to the floor. I, inspired by the blood and my mother’s collapse and the powerful odors of syrup and sugar rising from my plate, slumped forward. My forehead went into the syrup. I heard a roar—it seemed to me that I was being clutched beneath the armpits and whirled around—and then my father shook me back into consciousness. He had already attended to my mother.

　　Still think I’m fanciful? Then listen to this. Out of curiosity I asked my mother when her firs

I was eight years old the first time I fainted. I was at friend’s house, and a bee stung me on the back of the neck. I had felt nothing but a slight pinch and the bug was soon wiped away and flushed down the toilet, but since I looked pale I was urged to call my mother. As I told her what had happened, I felt myself blacking out, sinking to the floor, vaguely aware that I was still gripping the receiver.

　　Perhaps I was allergic to the bee sting—the only one I’ve ever gotten, although to this day I have a phobia about bees, wasps, and other insects. But the image of an eight-year-old in Keds crumpling to the ground while he describes his injury to his Mommy seems to return us to Freudian territory. Note the umbilical image of the phone cord.

　　Call me fanciful. Still, I’m afraid these undertones are hardly dissipated by the second fainting incident I can recall, which practically reeks of the family romance. This took place one weekend morning while we were gathered in the kitchen to eat breakfast. My mother stood at the stove making French toast, which she had already served to the kids; my father, seated at the table, was cutting a bagel with a sharp bread knife. Contrary to every principle of kitchen safety, he was holding the bagel in his hand and cutting inward, and eventually he made a neat, shallow incision in his palm. The blood was profuse.

　　Being a hematologist, my father didn’t panic: this was just business as usual. But my mother stopped flipping French toast and collapsed to the floor. I, inspired by the blood and my mother’s collapse and the powerful odors of syrup and sugar rising from my plate, slumped forward. My forehead went into the syrup. I heard a roar—it seemed to me that I was being clutched beneath the armpits and whirled around—and then my father shook me back into consciousness. He had already attended to my mother.

　　Still think I’m fanciful? Then listen to this. Out of curiosity I asked my mother when her firs

I was eight years old the first time I fainted. I was at friend’s house, and a bee stung me on the back of the neck. I had felt nothing but a slight pinch and the bug was soon wiped away and flushed down the toilet, but since I looked pale I was urged to call my mother. As I told her what had happened, I felt myself blacking out, sinking to the floor, vaguely aware that I was still gripping the receiver.

　　Perhaps I was allergic to the bee sting—the only one I’ve ever gotten, although to this day I have a phobia about bees, wasps, and other insects. But the image of an eight-year-old in Keds crumpling to the ground while he describes his injury to his Mommy seems to return us to Freudian territory. Note the umbilical image of the phone cord.

　　Call me fanciful. Still, I’m afraid these undertones are hardly dissipated by the second fainting incident I can recall, which practically reeks of the family romance. This took place one weekend morning while we were gathered in the kitchen to eat breakfast. My mother stood at the stove making French toast, which she had already served to the kids; my father, seated at the table, was cutting a bagel with a sharp bread knife. Contrary to every principle of kitchen safety, he was holding the bagel in his hand and cutting inward, and eventually he made a neat, shallow incision in his palm. The blood was profuse.

　　Being a hematologist, my father didn’t panic: this was just business as usual. But my mother stopped flipping French toast and collapsed to the floor. I, inspired by the blood and my mother’s collapse and the powerful odors of syrup and sugar rising from my plate, slumped forward. My forehead went into the syrup. I heard a roar—it seemed to me that I was being clutched beneath the armpits and whirled around—and then my father shook me back into consciousness. He had already attended to my mother.

　　Still think I’m fanciful? Then listen to this. Out of curiosity I asked my mother when her firs

I was eight years old the first time I fainted. I was at friend’s house, and a bee stung me on the back of the neck. I had felt nothing but a slight pinch and the bug was soon wiped away and flushed down the toilet, but since I looked pale I was urged to call my mother. As I told her what had happened, I felt myself blacking out, sinking to the floor, vaguely aware that I was still gripping the receiver.

　　Perhaps I was allergic to the bee sting—the only one I’ve ever gotten, although to this day I have a phobia about bees, wasps, and other insects. But the image of an eight-year-old in Keds crumpling to the ground while he describes his injury to his Mommy seems to return us to Freudian territory. Note the umbilical image of the phone cord.

　　Call me fanciful. Still, I’m afraid these undertones are hardly dissipated by the second fainting incident I can recall, which practically reeks of the family romance. This took place one weekend morning while we were gathered in the kitchen to eat breakfast. My mother stood at the stove making French toast, which she had already served to the kids; my father, seated at the table, was cutting a bagel with a sharp bread knife. Contrary to every principle of kitchen safety, he was holding the bagel in his hand and cutting inward, and eventually he made a neat, shallow incision in his palm. The blood was profuse.

　　Being a hematologist, my father didn’t panic: this was just business as usual. But my mother stopped flipping French toast and collapsed to the floor. I, inspired by the blood and my mother’s collapse and the powerful odors of syrup and sugar rising from my plate, slumped forward. My forehead went into the syrup. I heard a roar—it seemed to me that I was being clutched beneath the armpits and whirled around—and then my father shook me back into consciousness. He had already attended to my mother.

　　Still think I’m fanciful? Then listen to this. Out of curiosity I asked my mother when her firs

I was eight years old the first time I fainted. I was at friend’s house, and a bee stung me on the back of the neck. I had felt nothing but a slight pinch and the bug was soon wiped away and flushed down the toilet, but since I looked pale I was urged to call my mother. As I told her what had happened, I felt myself blacking out, sinking to the floor, vaguely aware that I was still gripping the receiver.

　　Perhaps I was allergic to the bee sting—the only one I’ve ever gotten, although to this day I have a phobia about bees, wasps, and other insects. But the image of an eight-year-old in Keds crumpling to the ground while he describes his injury to his Mommy seems to return us to Freudian territory. Note the umbilical image of the phone cord.

　　Call me fanciful. Still, I’m afraid these undertones are hardly dissipated by the second fainting incident I can recall, which practically reeks of the family romance. This took place one weekend morning while we were gathered in the kitchen to eat breakfast. My mother stood at the stove making French toast, which she had already served to the kids; my father, seated at the table, was cutting a bagel with a sharp bread knife. Contrary to every principle of kitchen safety, he was holding the bagel in his hand and cutting inward, and eventually he made a neat, shallow incision in his palm. The blood was profuse.

　　Being a hematologist, my father didn’t panic: this was just business as usual. But my mother stopped flipping French toast and collapsed to the floor. I, inspired by the blood and my mother’s collapse and the powerful odors of syrup and sugar rising from my plate, slumped forward. My forehead went into the syrup. I heard a roar—it seemed to me that I was being clutched beneath the armpits and whirled around—and then my father shook me back into consciousness. He had already attended to my mother.

　　Still think I’m fanciful? Then listen to this. Out of curiosity I asked my mother when her firs

The Welsh language has always been the ultimate marker of Welsh identity, but a generation ago it looked as if Welsh would go the way of Manx, once widely spoken on the Isle of Man but now extinct. Government financing and central planning, however, have helped reverse the decline of Welsh. Road signs and official public documents are written in both Welsh and English, and schoolchildren are required to learn both languages. Welsh is now one of the most successful of Europe’s regional languages, spoken by more than a half-million of the country’s three million people.

　　The revival of the language, particularly among young people, is part of a resurgence of national identity sweeping through this small, proud nation. Last month Wales marked the second anniversary of the opening of the National Assembly, the first parliament to be convened here since 1404. The idea behind devolution was to restore the balance within the union of nations making up the United Kingdom. With most of the people and wealth, England has always had bragging rights. The partial transfer of legislative powers from Westminster, implemented by Tony Blair, was designed to give the other members of the club—Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales—a bigger say and to counter centrifugal forces that seemed to threaten the very idea of the union.

　　The Welsh showed little enthusiasm for devolution. Whereas the Scots voted overwhelmingly for a parliament, the vote for a Welsh assembly scraped through by less than one percent on a turnout of less than 25 percent. Its powers were proportionately limited. The Assembly can decide how money from Westminster or the European Union is spent. It cannot, unlike its counterpart in Edinburgh, enact laws. But now that it is here, the Welsh are growing to like their Assembly. Many people would like it to have more powers. Its importance as figurehead will grow with the opening in 2003, of a new debating chamber, one of many new buildings that are trans

The Welsh language has always been the ultimate marker of Welsh identity, but a generation ago it looked as if Welsh would go the way of Manx, once widely spoken on the Isle of Man but now extinct. Government financing and central planning, however, have helped reverse the decline of Welsh. Road signs and official public documents are written in both Welsh and English, and schoolchildren are required to learn both languages. Welsh is now one of the most successful of Europe’s regional languages, spoken by more than a half-million of the country’s three million people.

　　The revival of the language, particularly among young people, is part of a resurgence of national identity sweeping through this small, proud nation. Last month Wales marked the second anniversary of the opening of the National Assembly, the first parliament to be convened here since 1404. The idea behind devolution was to restore the balance within the union of nations making up the United Kingdom. With most of the people and wealth, England has always had bragging rights. The partial transfer of legislative powers from Westminster, implemented by Tony Blair, was designed to give the other members of the club—Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales—a bigger say and to counter centrifugal forces that seemed to threaten the very idea of the union.

　　The Welsh showed little enthusiasm for devolution. Whereas the Scots voted overwhelmingly for a parliament, the vote for a Welsh assembly scraped through by less than one percent on a turnout of less than 25 percent. Its powers were proportionately limited. The Assembly can decide how money from Westminster or the European Union is spent. It cannot, unlike its counterpart in Edinburgh, enact laws. But now that it is here, the Welsh are growing to like their Assembly. Many people would like it to have more powers. Its importance as figurehead will grow with the opening in 2003, of a new debating chamber, one of many new buildings that are trans

The Welsh language has always been the ultimate marker of Welsh identity, but a generation ago it looked as if Welsh would go the way of Manx, once widely spoken on the Isle of Man but now extinct. Government financing and central planning, however, have helped reverse the decline of Welsh. Road signs and official public documents are written in both Welsh and English, and schoolchildren are required to learn both languages. Welsh is now one of the most successful of Europe’s regional languages, spoken by more than a half-million of the country’s three million people.

　　The revival of the language, particularly among young people, is part of a resurgence of national identity sweeping through this small, proud nation. Last month Wales marked the second anniversary of the opening of the National Assembly, the first parliament to be convened here since 1404. The idea behind devolution was to restore the balance within the union of nations making up the United Kingdom. With most of the people and wealth, England has always had bragging rights. The partial transfer of legislative powers from Westminster, implemented by Tony Blair, was designed to give the other members of the club—Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales—a bigger say and to counter centrifugal forces that seemed to threaten the very idea of the union.

　　The Welsh showed little enthusiasm for devolution. Whereas the Scots voted overwhelmingly for a parliament, the vote for a Welsh assembly scraped through by less than one percent on a turnout of less than 25 percent. Its powers were proportionately limited. The Assembly can decide how money from Westminster or the European Union is spent. It cannot, unlike its counterpart in Edinburgh, enact laws. But now that it is here, the Welsh are growing to like their Assembly. Many people would like it to have more powers. Its importance as figurehead will grow with the opening in 2003, of a new debating chamber, one of many new buildings that are trans

The Welsh language has always been the ultimate marker of Welsh identity, but a generation ago it looked as if Welsh would go the way of Manx, once widely spoken on the Isle of Man but now extinct. Government financing and central planning, however, have helped reverse the decline of Welsh. Road signs and official public documents are written in both Welsh and English, and schoolchildren are required to learn both languages. Welsh is now one of the most successful of Europe’s regional languages, spoken by more than a half-million of the country’s three million people.

　　The revival of the language, particularly among young people, is part of a resurgence of national identity sweeping through this small, proud nation. Last month Wales marked the second anniversary of the opening of the National Assembly, the first parliament to be convened here since 1404. The idea behind devolution was to restore the balance within the union of nations making up the United Kingdom. With most of the people and wealth, England has always had bragging rights. The partial transfer of legislative powers from Westminster, implemented by Tony Blair, was designed to give the other members of the club—Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales—a bigger say and to counter centrifugal forces that seemed to threaten the very idea of the union.

　　The Welsh showed little enthusiasm for devolution. Whereas the Scots voted overwhelmingly for a parliament, the vote for a Welsh assembly scraped through by less than one percent on a turnout of less than 25 percent. Its powers were proportionately limited. The Assembly can decide how money from Westminster or the European Union is spent. It cannot, unlike its counterpart in Edinburgh, enact laws. But now that it is here, the Welsh are growing to like their Assembly. Many people would like it to have more powers. Its importance as figurehead will grow with the opening in 2003, of a new debating chamber, one of many new buildings that are trans

The Welsh language has always been the ultimate marker of Welsh identity, but a generation ago it looked as if Welsh would go the way of Manx, once widely spoken on the Isle of Man but now extinct. Government financing and central planning, however, have helped reverse the decline of Welsh. Road signs and official public documents are written in both Welsh and English, and schoolchildren are required to learn both languages. Welsh is now one of the most successful of Europe’s regional languages, spoken by more than a half-million of the country’s three million people.

　　The revival of the language, particularly among young people, is part of a resurgence of national identity sweeping through this small, proud nation. Last month Wales marked the second anniversary of the opening of the National Assembly, the first parliament to be convened here since 1404. The idea behind devolution was to restore the balance within the union of nations making up the United Kingdom. With most of the people and wealth, England has always had bragging rights. The partial transfer of legislative powers from Westminster, implemented by Tony Blair, was designed to give the other members of the club—Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales—a bigger say and to counter centrifugal forces that seemed to threaten the very idea of the union.

　　The Welsh showed little enthusiasm for devolution. Whereas the Scots voted overwhelmingly for a parliament, the vote for a Welsh assembly scraped through by less than one percent on a turnout of less than 25 percent. Its powers were proportionately limited. The Assembly can decide how money from Westminster or the European Union is spent. It cannot, unlike its counterpart in Edinburgh, enact laws. But now that it is here, the Welsh are growing to like their Assembly. Many people would like it to have more powers. Its importance as figurehead will grow with the opening in 2003, of a new debating chamber, one of many new buildings that are trans

The miserable fate of Enron’s employees will be a landmark in business history, one of those awful events that everyone agrees must never be allowed to happen again. This urge is understandable and noble: thousands have lost virtually all their retirement savings with the demise of Enron stock. But making sure it never happens again may not be possible, because the sudden impoverishment of those Enron workers represents something even larger than it seems. It’s the latest turn in the unwinding of one of the most audacious promises of the 20th century.

　　The promise was assured economic security—even comfort—for essentially everyone in the developed world. With the explosion of wealth, that began in the 19th century it became possible to think about a possibility no one had dared to dream before. The fear at the center of daily living since caveman days—lack of food, warmth, shelter—would at last lose its power to terrify. That remarkable promise became reality in many ways. Governments created welfare systems for anyone in need and separate programs for the elderly (Social Security in the U.S.). Labour unions promised not only better pay for workers but also pensions for retirees. Giant corporations came into being and offered the possibility—in some cases the promise—of lifetime employment plus guaranteed pensions? The cumulative effect was a fundamental change in how millions of people approached life itself, a reversal of attitude that most rank as one of the largest in human history. For millennia the average person’s stance toward providing for himself had been. Ultimately I’m on my own. Now it became, ultimately I’ll be taken care of.

　　The early hints that this promise might be broken on a large scale came in the 1980s. U.S. business had become uncompetitive globally and began restructuring massively, with huge Layoffs. The trend accelerated in the 1990s as the bastions of corporate welfare faced reality. IBM ended its no-layoff policy. AT&T fi

The miserable fate of Enron’s employees will be a landmark in business history, one of those awful events that everyone agrees must never be allowed to happen again. This urge is understandable and noble: thousands have lost virtually all their retirement savings with the demise of Enron stock. But making sure it never happens again may not be possible, because the sudden impoverishment of those Enron workers represents something even larger than it seems. It’s the latest turn in the unwinding of one of the most audacious promises of the 20th century.

　　The promise was assured economic security—even comfort—for essentially everyone in the developed world. With the explosion of wealth, that began in the 19th century it became possible to think about a possibility no one had dared to dream before. The fear at the center of daily living since caveman days—lack of food, warmth, shelter—would at last lose its power to terrify. That remarkable promise became reality in many ways. Governments created welfare systems for anyone in need and separate programs for the elderly (Social Security in the U.S.). Labour unions promised not only better pay for workers but also pensions for retirees. Giant corporations came into being and offered the possibility—in some cases the promise—of lifetime employment plus guaranteed pensions? The cumulative effect was a fundamental change in how millions of people approached life itself, a reversal of attitude that most rank as one of the largest in human history. For millennia the average person’s stance toward providing for himself had been. Ultimately I’m on my own. Now it became, ultimately I’ll be taken care of.

　　The early hints that this promise might be broken on a large scale came in the 1980s. U.S. business had become uncompetitive globally and began restructuring massively, with huge Layoffs. The trend accelerated in the 1990s as the bastions of corporate welfare faced reality. IBM ended its no-layoff policy. AT&T fi

The miserable fate of Enron’s employees will be a landmark in business history, one of those awful events that everyone agrees must never be allowed to happen again. This urge is understandable and noble: thousands have lost virtually all their retirement savings with the demise of Enron stock. But making sure it never happens again may not be possible, because the sudden impoverishment of those Enron workers represents something even larger than it seems. It’s the latest turn in the unwinding of one of the most audacious promises of the 20th century.

　　The promise was assured economic security—even comfort—for essentially everyone in the developed world. With the explosion of wealth, that began in the 19th century it became possible to think about a possibility no one had dared to dream before. The fear at the center of daily living since caveman days—lack of food, warmth, shelter—would at last lose its power to terrify. That remarkable promise became reality in many ways. Governments created welfare systems for anyone in need and separate programs for the elderly (Social Security in the U.S.). Labour unions promised not only better pay for workers but also pensions for retirees. Giant corporations came into being and offered the possibility—in some cases the promise—of lifetime employment plus guaranteed pensions? The cumulative effect was a fundamental change in how millions of people approached life itself, a reversal of attitude that most rank as one of the largest in human history. For millennia the average person’s stance toward providing for himself had been. Ultimately I’m on my own. Now it became, ultimately I’ll be taken care of.

　　The early hints that this promise might be broken on a large scale came in the 1980s. U.S. business had become uncompetitive globally and began restructuring massively, with huge Layoffs. The trend accelerated in the 1990s as the bastions of corporate welfare faced reality. IBM ended its no-layoff policy. AT&T fi

The miserable fate of Enron’s employees will be a landmark in business history, one of those awful events that everyone agrees must never be allowed to happen again. This urge is understandable and noble: thousands have lost virtually all their retirement savings with the demise of Enron stock. But making sure it never happens again may not be possible, because the sudden impoverishment of those Enron workers represents something even larger than it seems. It’s the latest turn in the unwinding of one of the most audacious promises of the 20th century.

　　The promise was assured economic security—even comfort—for essentially everyone in the developed world. With the explosion of wealth, that began in the 19th century it became possible to think about a possibility no one had dared to dream before. The fear at the center of daily living since caveman days—lack of food, warmth, shelter—would at last lose its power to terrify. That remarkable promise became reality in many ways. Governments created welfare systems for anyone in need and separate programs for the elderly (Social Security in the U.S.). Labour unions promised not only better pay for workers but also pensions for retirees. Giant corporations came into being and offered the possibility—in some cases the promise—of lifetime employment plus guaranteed pensions? The cumulative effect was a fundamental change in how millions of people approached life itself, a reversal of attitude that most rank as one of the largest in human history. For millennia the average person’s stance toward providing for himself had been. Ultimately I’m on my own. Now it became, ultimately I’ll be taken care of.

　　The early hints that this promise might be broken on a large scale came in the 1980s. U.S. business had become uncompetitive globally and began restructuring massively, with huge Layoffs. The trend accelerated in the 1990s as the bastions of corporate welfare faced reality. IBM ended its no-layoff policy. AT&T fi

The miserable fate of Enron’s employees will be a landmark in business history, one of those awful events that everyone agrees must never be allowed to happen again. This urge is understandable and noble: thousands have lost virtually all their retirement savings with the demise of Enron stock. But making sure it never happens again may not be possible, because the sudden impoverishment of those Enron workers represents something even larger than it seems. It’s the latest turn in the unwinding of one of the most audacious promises of the 20th century.

　　The promise was assured economic security—even comfort—for essentially everyone in the developed world. With the explosion of wealth, that began in the 19th century it became possible to think about a possibility no one had dared to dream before. The fear at the center of daily living since caveman days—lack of food, warmth, shelter—would at last lose its power to terrify. That remarkable promise became reality in many ways. Governments created welfare systems for anyone in need and separate programs for the elderly (Social Security in the U.S.). Labour unions promised not only better pay for workers but also pensions for retirees. Giant corporations came into being and offered the possibility—in some cases the promise—of lifetime employment plus guaranteed pensions? The cumulative effect was a fundamental change in how millions of people approached life itself, a reversal of attitude that most rank as one of the largest in human history. For millennia the average person’s stance toward providing for himself had been. Ultimately I’m on my own. Now it became, ultimately I’ll be taken care of.

　　The early hints that this promise might be broken on a large scale came in the 1980s. U.S. business had become uncompetitive globally and began restructuring massively, with huge Layoffs. The trend accelerated in the 1990s as the bastions of corporate welfare faced reality. IBM ended its no-layoff policy. AT&T fi

Film has properties that set it apart from painting, sculpture, novels, and plays. It is also, in its most popular and powerful form, a story telling medium that shares many elements with the short story and the novel. And since film presents its stories in dramatic form, it has even more in common with the stage play: Both plays and movies act out or dramatize, show rather than tell, what happens.

　　Unlike the novel, short story, or play, however, film is not handy to study; it cannot be effectively frozen on the printed page. The novel and short story are relatively easy to study because they are written to be read. The stage play is slightly more difficult to study because it is written to be performed. But plays are printed, and because they rely heavily on the spoken word, imaginative readers can conjure up at least a pale imitation of the experience they might have been watching a performance on stage. This cannot be said of the screenplay, for a film depends greatly on visual and other nonvisual elements that are not easily expressed in writing. The screenplay requires so much “filling in” by our imagination that we cannot really approximate the experience of a film by reading a screenplay, and reading a screenplay is worthwhile only if we have already seen the film. Thus, most screenplays are published not to read but rather to be remembered.

　　Still, film should not be ignored because studying it requires extra effort. And the fact that we do not generally “read” films does not mean we should ignore the principles of literary or dramatic analysis when we see a film. Literature and films do share many elements and communicate many things in similar ways. Perceptive film analysis rests on the principles used in literary analysis, and if we apply what we have learned in the study of literature to our analysis of films, we will be far ahead of those who do not. Therefore, before we turn to the unique elements of film, we need to look into the ele

Film has properties that set it apart from painting, sculpture, novels, and plays. It is also, in its most popular and powerful form, a story telling medium that shares many elements with the short story and the novel. And since film presents its stories in dramatic form, it has even more in common with the stage play: Both plays and movies act out or dramatize, show rather than tell, what happens.

　　Unlike the novel, short story, or play, however, film is not handy to study; it cannot be effectively frozen on the printed page. The novel and short story are relatively easy to study because they are written to be read. The stage play is slightly more difficult to study because it is written to be performed. But plays are printed, and because they rely heavily on the spoken word, imaginative readers can conjure up at least a pale imitation of the experience they might have been watching a performance on stage. This cannot be said of the screenplay, for a film depends greatly on visual and other nonvisual elements that are not easily expressed in writing. The screenplay requires so much “filling in” by our imagination that we cannot really approximate the experience of a film by reading a screenplay, and reading a screenplay is worthwhile only if we have already seen the film. Thus, most screenplays are published not to read but rather to be remembered.

　　Still, film should not be ignored because studying it requires extra effort. And the fact that we do not generally “read” films does not mean we should ignore the principles of literary or dramatic analysis when we see a film. Literature and films do share many elements and communicate many things in similar ways. Perceptive film analysis rests on the principles used in literary analysis, and if we apply what we have learned in the study of literature to our analysis of films, we will be far ahead of those who do not. Therefore, before we turn to the unique elements of film, we need to look into the ele

Film has properties that set it apart from painting, sculpture, novels, and plays. It is also, in its most popular and powerful form, a story telling medium that shares many elements with the short story and the novel. And since film presents its stories in dramatic form, it has even more in common with the stage play: Both plays and movies act out or dramatize, show rather than tell, what happens.

　　Unlike the novel, short story, or play, however, film is not handy to study; it cannot be effectively frozen on the printed page. The novel and short story are relatively easy to study because they are written to be read. The stage play is slightly more difficult to study because it is written to be performed. But plays are printed, and because they rely heavily on the spoken word, imaginative readers can conjure up at least a pale imitation of the experience they might have been watching a performance on stage. This cannot be said of the screenplay, for a film depends greatly on visual and other nonvisual elements that are not easily expressed in writing. The screenplay requires so much “filling in” by our imagination that we cannot really approximate the experience of a film by reading a screenplay, and reading a screenplay is worthwhile only if we have already seen the film. Thus, most screenplays are published not to read but rather to be remembered.

　　Still, film should not be ignored because studying it requires extra effort. And the fact that we do not generally “read” films does not mean we should ignore the principles of literary or dramatic analysis when we see a film. Literature and films do share many elements and communicate many things in similar ways. Perceptive film analysis rests on the principles used in literary analysis, and if we apply what we have learned in the study of literature to our analysis of films, we will be far ahead of those who do not. Therefore, before we turn to the unique elements of film, we need to look into the ele

Film has properties that set it apart from painting, sculpture, novels, and plays. It is also, in its most popular and powerful form, a story telling medium that shares many elements with the short story and the novel. And since film presents its stories in dramatic form, it has even more in common with the stage play: Both plays and movies act out or dramatize, show rather than tell, what happens.

　　Unlike the novel, short story, or play, however, film is not handy to study; it cannot be effectively frozen on the printed page. The novel and short story are relatively easy to study because they are written to be read. The stage play is slightly more difficult to study because it is written to be performed. But plays are printed, and because they rely heavily on the spoken word, imaginative readers can conjure up at least a pale imitation of the experience they might have been watching a performance on stage. This cannot be said of the screenplay, for a film depends greatly on visual and other nonvisual elements that are not easily expressed in writing. The screenplay requires so much “filling in” by our imagination that we cannot really approximate the experience of a film by reading a screenplay, and reading a screenplay is worthwhile only if we have already seen the film. Thus, most screenplays are published not to read but rather to be remembered.

　　Still, film should not be ignored because studying it requires extra effort. And the fact that we do not generally “read” films does not mean we should ignore the principles of literary or dramatic analysis when we see a film. Literature and films do share many elements and communicate many things in similar ways. Perceptive film analysis rests on the principles used in literary analysis, and if we apply what we have learned in the study of literature to our analysis of films, we will be far ahead of those who do not. Therefore, before we turn to the unique elements of film, we need to look into the ele

Film has properties that set it apart from painting, sculpture, novels, and plays. It is also, in its most popular and powerful form, a story telling medium that shares many elements with the short story and the novel. And since film presents its stories in dramatic form, it has even more in common with the stage play: Both plays and movies act out or dramatize, show rather than tell, what happens.

　　Unlike the novel, short story, or play, however, film is not handy to study; it cannot be effectively frozen on the printed page. The novel and short story are relatively easy to study because they are written to be read. The stage play is slightly more difficult to study because it is written to be performed. But plays are printed, and because they rely heavily on the spoken word, imaginative readers can conjure up at least a pale imitation of the experience they might have been watching a performance on stage. This cannot be said of the screenplay, for a film depends greatly on visual and other nonvisual elements that are not easily expressed in writing. The screenplay requires so much “filling in” by our imagination that we cannot really approximate the experience of a film by reading a screenplay, and reading a screenplay is worthwhile only if we have already seen the film. Thus, most screenplays are published not to read but rather to be remembered.

　　Still, film should not be ignored because studying it requires extra effort. And the fact that we do not generally “read” films does not mean we should ignore the principles of literary or dramatic analysis when we see a film. Literature and films do share many elements and communicate many things in similar ways. Perceptive film analysis rests on the principles used in literary analysis, and if we apply what we have learned in the study of literature to our analysis of films, we will be far ahead of those who do not. Therefore, before we turn to the unique elements of film, we need to look into the ele

Auctions are public sales of goods, conducted by an officially approved auctioneer. He asked the crowed assembled in the auction-room to make offers, or “bids”, for the various items on sale. He encourages buyers to bid higher figures and finally names the highest bidder as the buyer of the goods. This is called “knocking down” the goods, for the bidding ends when the auctioneer bangs a small hammer on a table at which he stands. This is often set on a raised platform called a rostrum.

　　The ancient Romans probably invented sales by auction, and the English word comes from the Latin Autcio, meaning “increase.” The Romans usually sold in this way the spoils taken in war; these sales were called subhasta, meaning “under the spear,” a spear being stuck in the ground as a signal for a crowd to gather, In English in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, goods were often sold “by the candle”; a short candle was lit by the auctioneer, and bids could be made while it stayed alight.

　　Practically all goods whose qualities vary are sold by auction. Among these are coffee, hides, skins, wool, tea, cocoa, furs, spices, fruit and vegetables and wines. Auction sales are also usual for land and property, antique furniture, pictures, rare books, old china and similar works of art. The auction-rooms as Christie’s and Sotheby’s in London and New York are world-famous.

　　An auction is usually advertised beforehand with full particulars of the articles to be sold and where and when they can be viewed by prospective buyers. If the advertisement cannot give full details, catalogues are printed, and each group of goods to be sold together, called a “lot,” is usually given a number. The auctioneer need not begin with Lot I and continue in numerical order; he may wait until he registers the fact that certain dealers are in the room and then produce the lots they are likely to be interested in. The auctioneer’s services are paid for in the form of a percentage of the

Auctions are public sales of goods, conducted by an officially approved auctioneer. He asked the crowed assembled in the auction-room to make offers, or “bids”, for the various items on sale. He encourages buyers to bid higher figures and finally names the highest bidder as the buyer of the goods. This is called “knocking down” the goods, for the bidding ends when the auctioneer bangs a small hammer on a table at which he stands. This is often set on a raised platform called a rostrum.

　　The ancient Romans probably invented sales by auction, and the English word comes from the Latin Autcio, meaning “increase.” The Romans usually sold in this way the spoils taken in war; these sales were called subhasta, meaning “under the spear,” a spear being stuck in the ground as a signal for a crowd to gather, In English in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, goods were often sold “by the candle”; a short candle was lit by the auctioneer, and bids could be made while it stayed alight.

　　Practically all goods whose qualities vary are sold by auction. Among these are coffee, hides, skins, wool, tea, cocoa, furs, spices, fruit and vegetables and wines. Auction sales are also usual for land and property, antique furniture, pictures, rare books, old china and similar works of art. The auction-rooms as Christie’s and Sotheby’s in London and New York are world-famous.

　　An auction is usually advertised beforehand with full particulars of the articles to be sold and where and when they can be viewed by prospective buyers. If the advertisement cannot give full details, catalogues are printed, and each group of goods to be sold together, called a “lot,” is usually given a number. The auctioneer need not begin with Lot I and continue in numerical order; he may wait until he registers the fact that certain dealers are in the room and then produce the lots they are likely to be interested in. The auctioneer’s services are paid for in the form of a percentage of the

Auctions are public sales of goods, conducted by an officially approved auctioneer. He asked the crowed assembled in the auction-room to make offers, or “bids”, for the various items on sale. He encourages buyers to bid higher figures and finally names the highest bidder as the buyer of the goods. This is called “knocking down” the goods, for the bidding ends when the auctioneer bangs a small hammer on a table at which he stands. This is often set on a raised platform called a rostrum.

　　The ancient Romans probably invented sales by auction, and the English word comes from the Latin Autcio, meaning “increase.” The Romans usually sold in this way the spoils taken in war; these sales were called subhasta, meaning “under the spear,” a spear being stuck in the ground as a signal for a crowd to gather, In English in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, goods were often sold “by the candle”; a short candle was lit by the auctioneer, and bids could be made while it stayed alight.

　　Practically all goods whose qualities vary are sold by auction. Among these are coffee, hides, skins, wool, tea, cocoa, furs, spices, fruit and vegetables and wines. Auction sales are also usual for land and property, antique furniture, pictures, rare books, old china and similar works of art. The auction-rooms as Christie’s and Sotheby’s in London and New York are world-famous.

　　An auction is usually advertised beforehand with full particulars of the articles to be sold and where and when they can be viewed by prospective buyers. If the advertisement cannot give full details, catalogues are printed, and each group of goods to be sold together, called a “lot,” is usually given a number. The auctioneer need not begin with Lot I and continue in numerical order; he may wait until he registers the fact that certain dealers are in the room and then produce the lots they are likely to be interested in. The auctioneer’s services are paid for in the form of a percentage of the

When we consider great painters of the past, the study of art and the study of illusion cannot always be separated. By illusion I mean those contrivances of color, line, shape, and forth that lead us to see marks on a flat surface as depicting three-dimensional objects in space. I must emphasize that I am not making a plea, disguised or otherwise, for the exercise of illusionist tricks in painting today, although I am, in fact rather critical of certain theories of non-representational art. But to argue over these theories would be to miss the point. That the discoveries and effects of representation that were the pride of earlier artists have become trivial today I would not deny for a moment. Yet I believe that we are in real danger of losing contact with past masters if we accept the fashionable doctrine that such matters never had anything to do with art. The very reason why the representation of nature can now be considered something commonplace should be of the greatest interest to art historians. Never before has there been an age when the visual image was so cheap in every sense of the word. We are surrounded and assailed by posters and advertisements, comics and magazine illustrations. We see aspects of reality represented on television, postage stamps, and food packages. Painting is taught in school and practiced as a pastime, and many modest amateurs have mastered tricks that would have looked like sheer magic to the 14th?century painter Giotto. Even the crude colored renderings on a cereal box might have made Giotto’s contemporaries gasp. Perhaps there are people who concluded from this that the cereal box is superior to a Giotto; I do not. But I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both art historians and critics. In this connection it is instructive to remember the Greek saying that to marvel is the beginning of knowledge and if we cease to marvel we may be in danger of ceasing to know. I believe w

When we consider great painters of the past, the study of art and the study of illusion cannot always be separated. By illusion I mean those contrivances of color, line, shape, and forth that lead us to see marks on a flat surface as depicting three-dimensional objects in space. I must emphasize that I am not making a plea, disguised or otherwise, for the exercise of illusionist tricks in painting today, although I am, in fact rather critical of certain theories of non-representational art. But to argue over these theories would be to miss the point. That the discoveries and effects of representation that were the pride of earlier artists have become trivial today I would not deny for a moment. Yet I believe that we are in real danger of losing contact with past masters if we accept the fashionable doctrine that such matters never had anything to do with art. The very reason why the representation of nature can now be considered something commonplace should be of the greatest interest to art historians. Never before has there been an age when the visual image was so cheap in every sense of the word. We are surrounded and assailed by posters and advertisements, comics and magazine illustrations. We see aspects of reality represented on television, postage stamps, and food packages. Painting is taught in school and practiced as a pastime, and many modest amateurs have mastered tricks that would have looked like sheer magic to the 14th?century painter Giotto. Even the crude colored renderings on a cereal box might have made Giotto’s contemporaries gasp. Perhaps there are people who concluded from this that the cereal box is superior to a Giotto; I do not. But I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both art historians and critics. In this connection it is instructive to remember the Greek saying that to marvel is the beginning of knowledge and if we cease to marvel we may be in danger of ceasing to know. I believe w

When we consider great painters of the past, the study of art and the study of illusion cannot always be separated. By illusion I mean those contrivances of color, line, shape, and forth that lead us to see marks on a flat surface as depicting three-dimensional objects in space. I must emphasize that I am not making a plea, disguised or otherwise, for the exercise of illusionist tricks in painting today, although I am, in fact rather critical of certain theories of non-representational art. But to argue over these theories would be to miss the point. That the discoveries and effects of representation that were the pride of earlier artists have become trivial today I would not deny for a moment. Yet I believe that we are in real danger of losing contact with past masters if we accept the fashionable doctrine that such matters never had anything to do with art. The very reason why the representation of nature can now be considered something commonplace should be of the greatest interest to art historians. Never before has there been an age when the visual image was so cheap in every sense of the word. We are surrounded and assailed by posters and advertisements, comics and magazine illustrations. We see aspects of reality represented on television, postage stamps, and food packages. Painting is taught in school and practiced as a pastime, and many modest amateurs have mastered tricks that would have looked like sheer magic to the 14th?century painter Giotto. Even the crude colored renderings on a cereal box might have made Giotto’s contemporaries gasp. Perhaps there are people who concluded from this that the cereal box is superior to a Giotto; I do not. But I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both art historians and critics. In this connection it is instructive to remember the Greek saying that to marvel is the beginning of knowledge and if we cease to marvel we may be in danger of ceasing to know. I believe w

When we consider great painters of the past, the study of art and the study of illusion cannot always be separated. By illusion I mean those contrivances of color, line, shape, and forth that lead us to see marks on a flat surface as depicting three-dimensional objects in space. I must emphasize that I am not making a plea, disguised or otherwise, for the exercise of illusionist tricks in painting today, although I am, in fact rather critical of certain theories of non-representational art. But to argue over these theories would be to miss the point. That the discoveries and effects of representation that were the pride of earlier artists have become trivial today I would not deny for a moment. Yet I believe that we are in real danger of losing contact with past masters if we accept the fashionable doctrine that such matters never had anything to do with art. The very reason why the representation of nature can now be considered something commonplace should be of the greatest interest to art historians. Never before has there been an age when the visual image was so cheap in every sense of the word. We are surrounded and assailed by posters and advertisements, comics and magazine illustrations. We see aspects of reality represented on television, postage stamps, and food packages. Painting is taught in school and practiced as a pastime, and many modest amateurs have mastered tricks that would have looked like sheer magic to the 14th?century painter Giotto. Even the crude colored renderings on a cereal box might have made Giotto’s contemporaries gasp. Perhaps there are people who concluded from this that the cereal box is superior to a Giotto; I do not. But I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both art historians and critics. In this connection it is instructive to remember the Greek saying that to marvel is the beginning of knowledge and if we cease to marvel we may be in danger of ceasing to know. I believe w

When we consider great painters of the past, the study of art and the study of illusion cannot always be separated. By illusion I mean those contrivances of color, line, shape, and forth that lead us to see marks on a flat surface as depicting three-dimensional objects in space. I must emphasize that I am not making a plea, disguised or otherwise, for the exercise of illusionist tricks in painting today, although I am, in fact rather critical of certain theories of non-representational art. But to argue over these theories would be to miss the point. That the discoveries and effects of representation that were the pride of earlier artists have become trivial today I would not deny for a moment. Yet I believe that we are in real danger of losing contact with past masters if we accept the fashionable doctrine that such matters never had anything to do with art. The very reason why the representation of nature can now be considered something commonplace should be of the greatest interest to art historians. Never before has there been an age when the visual image was so cheap in every sense of the word. We are surrounded and assailed by posters and advertisements, comics and magazine illustrations. We see aspects of reality represented on television, postage stamps, and food packages. Painting is taught in school and practiced as a pastime, and many modest amateurs have mastered tricks that would have looked like sheer magic to the 14th?century painter Giotto. Even the crude colored renderings on a cereal box might have made Giotto’s contemporaries gasp. Perhaps there are people who concluded from this that the cereal box is superior to a Giotto; I do not. But I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both art historians and critics. In this connection it is instructive to remember the Greek saying that to marvel is the beginning of knowledge and if we cease to marvel we may be in danger of ceasing to know. I believe w

When we consider great painters of the past, the study of art and the study of illusion cannot always be separated. By illusion I mean those contrivances of color, line, shape, and forth that lead us to see marks on a flat surface as depicting three-dimensional objects in space. I must emphasize that I am not making a plea, disguised or otherwise, for the exercise of illusionist tricks in painting today, although I am, in fact rather critical of certain theories of non-representational art. But to argue over these theories would be to miss the point. That the discoveries and effects of representation that were the pride of earlier artists have become trivial today I would not deny for a moment. Yet I believe that we are in real danger of losing contact with past masters if we accept the fashionable doctrine that such matters never had anything to do with art. The very reason why the representation of nature can now be considered something commonplace should be of the greatest interest to art historians. Never before has there been an age when the visual image was so cheap in every sense of the word. We are surrounded and assailed by posters and advertisements, comics and magazine illustrations. We see aspects of reality represented on television, postage stamps, and food packages. Painting is taught in school and practiced as a pastime, and many modest amateurs have mastered tricks that would have looked like sheer magic to the 14th?century painter Giotto. Even the crude colored renderings on a cereal box might have made Giotto’s contemporaries gasp. Perhaps there are people who concluded from this that the cereal box is superior to a Giotto; I do not. But I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both art historians and critics. In this connection it is instructive to remember the Greek saying that to marvel is the beginning of knowledge and if we cease to marvel we may be in danger of ceasing to know. I believe w

When we consider great painters of the past, the study of art and the study of illusion cannot always be separated. By illusion I mean those contrivances of color, line, shape, and forth that lead us to see marks on a flat surface as depicting three-dimensional objects in space. I must emphasize that I am not making a plea, disguised or otherwise, for the exercise of illusionist tricks in painting today, although I am, in fact rather critical of certain theories of non-representational art. But to argue over these theories would be to miss the point. That the discoveries and effects of representation that were the pride of earlier artists have become trivial today I would not deny for a moment. Yet I believe that we are in real danger of losing contact with past masters if we accept the fashionable doctrine that such matters never had anything to do with art. The very reason why the representation of nature can now be considered something commonplace should be of the greatest interest to art historians. Never before has there been an age when the visual image was so cheap in every sense of the word. We are surrounded and assailed by posters and advertisements, comics and magazine illustrations. We see aspects of reality represented on television, postage stamps, and food packages. Painting is taught in school and practiced as a pastime, and many modest amateurs have mastered tricks that would have looked like sheer magic to the 14th?century painter Giotto. Even the crude colored renderings on a cereal box might have made Giotto’s contemporaries gasp. Perhaps there are people who concluded from this that the cereal box is superior to a Giotto; I do not. But I think that the victory and vulgarization of representational skills create a problem for both art historians and critics. In this connection it is instructive to remember the Greek saying that to marvel is the beginning of knowledge and if we cease to marvel we may be in danger of ceasing to know. I believe w

The Catcher in the Rye is written by( )

Don Juan was written by ( )

The aim of President Roosevelt’s New Deal was to “save American ( )”

( ) is often described as “father of modem linguistics”.

The Renaissance was a European phenomenon originated in ( )

Which of the following is a blending word？

Which of the following is Thomas Hardy′sbest-known novel?

The Midwest is America′s most important ( ) area.

Price of the houses( )according to the positions and surrounding environment.

Which of the following is NOT a “case” in English？

Among the following， ( ) is NOT one of the functions of adult′s language according to Halliday.

Psycholinguistics investigates the interrelation of language and ( )

Modern technology and science have produced a wealth of new materials and new ways of using old materials. For the artist this means wider opportunities. There is no doubt that the limitations of materials and nature of tools both restrict and shape a man’s work. Observe how the development of plastics and light metals along with new methods of welding has changed the direction of sculpture. Transparent plastic materials allow one to look through an object, to see its various sides superimposed on each other (as in Cubism or in an X-ray). Today, welding is as prevalent as casting was in the past. This new method encourages open designs, where surrounding and intervening space becomes as important as form itself.

　　More ambiguous than other scientific inventions familiar to modern artists, but no less influential, are the psychoanalytic studies of Freud and his followers, discoveries that have infiltrated recent art, especially Surrealism. The Surrealists, in their struggle to escape the monotony and frustrations of everyday life, claimed that dreams were the only hope. Turning to the irrational world of their unconscious, they banished all time barriers and moral judgements to combine disconnected dream experiences from the past, present and intervening psychological states. The Surrealists were concerned with overlapping emotions more than with overlapping forms. Their paintings often become segmented capsules of associative experiences. For them, obsessive and often unrelated images replaced the direct emotional message of expressionism. They did not need to smash paint and canvas: they went beyond this to smash the whole continuity of logical thought.

　　There is little doubt that contemporary art has taken much from contemporary life. In a period when science has made revolutionary strides, artists in their studios have not been unaware of scientists in their laboratories. But this has rarely been a one-way street. Painters and sculptors, through admittedly influenced by modern science, have also molded and changed our world. If break-up has been a vital part of their expression, it has not always been a symbol of destruction. Quite the contrary: it has been used to examine more fully, to penetrate more deeply, to analyze more thoroughly, to enlarge, isolate and make more familiar certain aspects of lire that earlier we were apt to neglect. In addition, it sometimes provides rich multiple experiences so organized as not merely to reflect our world, but in fact to interpret it.

According to the passage, it is true that _____.

Modern technology and science have produced a wealth of new materials and new ways of using old materials. For the artist this means wider opportunities. There is no doubt that the limitations of materials and nature of tools both restrict and shape a man’s work. Observe how the development of plastics and light metals along with new methods of welding has changed the direction of sculpture. Transparent plastic materials allow one to look through an object, to see its various sides superimposed on each other (as in Cubism or in an X-ray). Today, welding is as prevalent as casting was in the past. This new method encourages open designs, where surrounding and intervening space becomes as important as form itself.

　　More ambiguous than other scientific inventions familiar to modern artists, but no less influential, are the psychoanalytic studies of Freud and his followers, discoveries that have infiltrated recent art, especially Surrealism. The Surrealists, in their struggle to escape the monotony and frustrations of everyday life, claimed that dreams were the only hope. Turning to the irrational world of their unconscious, they banished all time barriers and moral judgements to combine disconnected dream experiences from the past, present and intervening psychological states. The Surrealists were concerned with overlapping emotions more than with overlapping forms. Their paintings often become segmented capsules of associative experiences. For them, obsessive and often unrelated images replaced the direct emotional message of expressionism. They did not need to smash paint and canvas: they went beyond this to smash the whole continuity of logical thought.

　　There is little doubt that contemporary art has taken much from contemporary life. In a period when science has made revolutionary strides, artists in their studios have not been unaware of scientists in their laboratories. But this has rarely been a one-way street. Painters and sculptors, through admittedly influenced by modern science, have also molded and changed our world. If break-up has been a vital part of their expression, it has not always been a symbol of destruction. Quite the contrary: it has been used to examine more fully, to penetrate more deeply, to analyze more thoroughly, to enlarge, isolate and make more familiar certain aspects of lire that earlier we were apt to neglect. In addition, it sometimes provides rich multiple experiences so organized as not merely to reflect our world, but in fact to interpret it.

The welding techniques _____.

Modern technology and science have produced a wealth of new materials and new ways of using old materials. For the artist this means wider opportunities. There is no doubt that the limitations of materials and nature of tools both restrict and shape a man’s work. Observe how the development of plastics and light metals along with new methods of welding has changed the direction of sculpture. Transparent plastic materials allow one to look through an object, to see its various sides superimposed on each other (as in Cubism or in an X-ray). Today, welding is as prevalent as casting was in the past. This new method encourages open designs, where surrounding and intervening space becomes as important as form itself.

　　More ambiguous than other scientific inventions familiar to modern artists, but no less influential, are the psychoanalytic studies of Freud and his followers, discoveries that have infiltrated recent art, especially Surrealism. The Surrealists, in their struggle to escape the monotony and frustrations of everyday life, claimed that dreams were the only hope. Turning to the irrational world of their unconscious, they banished all time barriers and moral judgements to combine disconnected dream experiences from the past, present and intervening psychological states. The Surrealists were concerned with overlapping emotions more than with overlapping forms. Their paintings often become segmented capsules of associative experiences. For them, obsessive and often unrelated images replaced the direct emotional message of expressionism. They did not need to smash paint and canvas: they went beyond this to smash the whole continuity of logical thought.

　　There is little doubt that contemporary art has taken much from contemporary life. In a period when science has made revolutionary strides, artists in their studios have not been unaware of scientists in their laboratories. But this has rarely been a one-way street. Painters and sculptors, through admittedly influenced by modern science, have also molded and changed our world. If break-up has been a vital part of their expression, it has not always been a symbol of destruction. Quite the contrary: it has been used to examine more fully, to penetrate more deeply, to analyze more thoroughly, to enlarge, isolate and make more familiar certain aspects of lire that earlier we were apt to neglect. In addition, it sometimes provides rich multiple experiences so organized as not merely to reflect our world, but in fact to interpret it.

We can learn from the text mat Freud’s studies _____.

Modern technology and science have produced a wealth of new materials and new ways of using old materials. For the artist this means wider opportunities. There is no doubt that the limitations of materials and nature of tools both restrict and shape a man’s work. Observe how the development of plastics and light metals along with new methods of welding has changed the direction of sculpture. Transparent plastic materials allow one to look through an object, to see its various sides superimposed on each other (as in Cubism or in an X-ray). Today, welding is as prevalent as casting was in the past. This new method encourages open designs, where surrounding and intervening space becomes as important as form itself.

　　More ambiguous than other scientific inventions familiar to modern artists, but no less influential, are the psychoanalytic studies of Freud and his followers, discoveries that have infiltrated recent art, especially Surrealism. The Surrealists, in their struggle to escape the monotony and frustrations of everyday life, claimed that dreams were the only hope. Turning to the irrational world of their unconscious, they banished all time barriers and moral judgements to combine disconnected dream experiences from the past, present and intervening psychological states. The Surrealists were concerned with overlapping emotions more than with overlapping forms. Their paintings often become segmented capsules of associative experiences. For them, obsessive and often unrelated images replaced the direct emotional message of expressionism. They did not need to smash paint and canvas: they went beyond this to smash the whole continuity of logical thought.

　　There is little doubt that contemporary art has taken much from contemporary life. In a period when science has made revolutionary strides, artists in their studios have not been unaware of scientists in their laboratories. But this has rarely been a one-way street. Painters and sculptors, through admittedly influenced by modern science, have also molded and changed our world. If break-up has been a vital part of their expression, it has not always been a symbol of destruction. Quite the contrary: it has been used to examine more fully, to penetrate more deeply, to analyze more thoroughly, to enlarge, isolate and make more familiar certain aspects of lire that earlier we were apt to neglect. In addition, it sometimes provides rich multiple experiences so organized as not merely to reflect our world, but in fact to interpret it.

Which of the following is tree about Surrealists?

Modern technology and science have produced a wealth of new materials and new ways of using old materials. For the artist this means wider opportunities. There is no doubt that the limitations of materials and nature of tools both restrict and shape a man’s work. Observe how the development of plastics and light metals along with new methods of welding has changed the direction of sculpture. Transparent plastic materials allow one to look through an object, to see its various sides superimposed on each other (as in Cubism or in an X-ray). Today, welding is as prevalent as casting was in the past. This new method encourages open designs, where surrounding and intervening space becomes as important as form itself.

　　More ambiguous than other scientific inventions familiar to modern artists, but no less influential, are the psychoanalytic studies of Freud and his followers, discoveries that have infiltrated recent art, especially Surrealism. The Surrealists, in their struggle to escape the monotony and frustrations of everyday life, claimed that dreams were the only hope. Turning to the irrational world of their unconscious, they banished all time barriers and moral judgements to combine disconnected dream experiences from the past, present and intervening psychological states. The Surrealists were concerned with overlapping emotions more than with overlapping forms. Their paintings often become segmented capsules of associative experiences. For them, obsessive and often unrelated images replaced the direct emotional message of expressionism. They did not need to smash paint and canvas: they went beyond this to smash the whole continuity of logical thought.

　　There is little doubt that contemporary art has taken much from contemporary life. In a period when science has made revolutionary strides, artists in their studios have not been unaware of scientists in their laboratories. But this has rarely been a one-way street. Painters and sculptors, through admittedly influenced by modern science, have also molded and changed our world. If break-up has been a vital part of their expression, it has not always been a symbol of destruction. Quite the contrary: it has been used to examine more fully, to penetrate more deeply, to analyze more thoroughly, to enlarge, isolate and make more familiar certain aspects of lire that earlier we were apt to neglect. In addition, it sometimes provides rich multiple experiences so organized as not merely to reflect our world, but in fact to interpret it.

The sentence “But this has rarely been a one-way street.” in the last paragraph means that _____.

About a dozen years ago my wife and I planted a hedge of twenty-seven arborvitae trees along the border of our backyard, which, although our house sits on nineteen acres of fields and woods, is also the back border of our property. A sloping hayfield with a realtor’s dream of panoramic views lies directly behind us. So the hedge was our attempt to secure privacy for the future. The nurseryman who sold us the shrubs assured us they were the best species for our purpose and climate. I measured and marked the planting sites, called in “Chink” Norris (whose possibly racist nickname I’ve not looked into any more than I have the nurseryman’s credentials) to come with his small backhoe and dig the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the first year, with results that were everything I’d been promised: dense, hardy, and luxuriant, a towering bulwark of green. Thus began an episode of great vexation and buffoonery in my life, known and (I have no doubt) merrily recounted in local circles as the tale of “Garret and his trees”, or as my wife puts it, “Garret and the deer.” It so happens that we live next to one of the county’s most extensive “deer yard”, those areas of canopied woods to which the deer retire in winter, making networks of deeply furrowed tracks and foraging as best they can until there’s a declared winner in the yearly race between spring and starvation.

　　It also happens that deer find arborvitae a delicacy, related to the cedar that they also love, but thicker and more succulent. By the second winter they’d found and attacked my trees. I fought back, not with a vengeance—I stopped short of that—but with something close to obsession. I erected fence structures that made our backyard look like a scene from the Somme. I played recordings of wolves howling, recordings of me howling. I fired pistol shots at random hours of the night. I hung or sprinkled repellents of blood meal, urine, (mine), and deodorant soap. Hearing that deer were repelled by the scent of human hair, I asked some hair dressers to set aside their sweepings in a bag with, as the saying goes, my name on it.

　　As any warden will tell you, if deer are hungry enough they will get through anything, which this year included an electric fence hooked to a charger supposedly powerful enough to deter an elephant. So the farmer who’d helped me rig it up assured me. What he did not tell me, because he did not know, was that the insulating snowpack would prevent an animal from completing the circuit with the ground. In came the deer like a school of piranhas. This was shortly after a man from Connecticut purchased the hayfield behind our house for a price few of my neighbors could afforded and none of them could believe and set about measuring the foundations of a house.

The author and his wife planted a hedge along their backyard for the purpose of _____.

About a dozen years ago my wife and I planted a hedge of twenty-seven arborvitae trees along the border of our backyard, which, although our house sits on nineteen acres of fields and woods, is also the back border of our property. A sloping hayfield with a realtor’s dream of panoramic views lies directly behind us. So the hedge was our attempt to secure privacy for the future. The nurseryman who sold us the shrubs assured us they were the best species for our purpose and climate. I measured and marked the planting sites, called in “Chink” Norris (whose possibly racist nickname I’ve not looked into any more than I have the nurseryman’s credentials) to come with his small backhoe and dig the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the first year, with results that were everything I’d been promised: dense, hardy, and luxuriant, a towering bulwark of green. Thus began an episode of great vexation and buffoonery in my life, known and (I have no doubt) merrily recounted in local circles as the tale of “Garret and his trees”, or as my wife puts it, “Garret and the deer.” It so happens that we live next to one of the county’s most extensive “deer yard”, those areas of canopied woods to which the deer retire in winter, making networks of deeply furrowed tracks and foraging as best they can until there’s a declared winner in the yearly race between spring and starvation.

　　It also happens that deer find arborvitae a delicacy, related to the cedar that they also love, but thicker and more succulent. By the second winter they’d found and attacked my trees. I fought back, not with a vengeance—I stopped short of that—but with something close to obsession. I erected fence structures that made our backyard look like a scene from the Somme. I played recordings of wolves howling, recordings of me howling. I fired pistol shots at random hours of the night. I hung or sprinkled repellents of blood meal, urine, (mine), and deodorant soap. Hearing that deer were repelled by the scent of human hair, I asked some hair dressers to set aside their sweepings in a bag with, as the saying goes, my name on it.

　　As any warden will tell you, if deer are hungry enough they will get through anything, which this year included an electric fence hooked to a charger supposedly powerful enough to deter an elephant. So the farmer who’d helped me rig it up assured me. What he did not tell me, because he did not know, was that the insulating snowpack would prevent an animal from completing the circuit with the ground. In came the deer like a school of piranhas. This was shortly after a man from Connecticut purchased the hayfield behind our house for a price few of my neighbors could afforded and none of them could believe and set about measuring the foundations of a house.

The author collects hair in bags to prevent the invasion of deer because he knows that _____.

About a dozen years ago my wife and I planted a hedge of twenty-seven arborvitae trees along the border of our backyard, which, although our house sits on nineteen acres of fields and woods, is also the back border of our property. A sloping hayfield with a realtor’s dream of panoramic views lies directly behind us. So the hedge was our attempt to secure privacy for the future. The nurseryman who sold us the shrubs assured us they were the best species for our purpose and climate. I measured and marked the planting sites, called in “Chink” Norris (whose possibly racist nickname I’ve not looked into any more than I have the nurseryman’s credentials) to come with his small backhoe and dig the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the first year, with results that were everything I’d been promised: dense, hardy, and luxuriant, a towering bulwark of green. Thus began an episode of great vexation and buffoonery in my life, known and (I have no doubt) merrily recounted in local circles as the tale of “Garret and his trees”, or as my wife puts it, “Garret and the deer.” It so happens that we live next to one of the county’s most extensive “deer yard”, those areas of canopied woods to which the deer retire in winter, making networks of deeply furrowed tracks and foraging as best they can until there’s a declared winner in the yearly race between spring and starvation.

　　It also happens that deer find arborvitae a delicacy, related to the cedar that they also love, but thicker and more succulent. By the second winter they’d found and attacked my trees. I fought back, not with a vengeance—I stopped short of that—but with something close to obsession. I erected fence structures that made our backyard look like a scene from the Somme. I played recordings of wolves howling, recordings of me howling. I fired pistol shots at random hours of the night. I hung or sprinkled repellents of blood meal, urine, (mine), and deodorant soap. Hearing that deer were repelled by the scent of human hair, I asked some hair dressers to set aside their sweepings in a bag with, as the saying goes, my name on it.

　　As any warden will tell you, if deer are hungry enough they will get through anything, which this year included an electric fence hooked to a charger supposedly powerful enough to deter an elephant. So the farmer who’d helped me rig it up assured me. What he did not tell me, because he did not know, was that the insulating snowpack would prevent an animal from completing the circuit with the ground. In came the deer like a school of piranhas. This was shortly after a man from Connecticut purchased the hayfield behind our house for a price few of my neighbors could afforded and none of them could believe and set about measuring the foundations of a house.

Why the author sets up an electric fence?

About a dozen years ago my wife and I planted a hedge of twenty-seven arborvitae trees along the border of our backyard, which, although our house sits on nineteen acres of fields and woods, is also the back border of our property. A sloping hayfield with a realtor’s dream of panoramic views lies directly behind us. So the hedge was our attempt to secure privacy for the future. The nurseryman who sold us the shrubs assured us they were the best species for our purpose and climate. I measured and marked the planting sites, called in “Chink” Norris (whose possibly racist nickname I’ve not looked into any more than I have the nurseryman’s credentials) to come with his small backhoe and dig the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the first year, with results that were everything I’d been promised: dense, hardy, and luxuriant, a towering bulwark of green. Thus began an episode of great vexation and buffoonery in my life, known and (I have no doubt) merrily recounted in local circles as the tale of “Garret and his trees”, or as my wife puts it, “Garret and the deer.” It so happens that we live next to one of the county’s most extensive “deer yard”, those areas of canopied woods to which the deer retire in winter, making networks of deeply furrowed tracks and foraging as best they can until there’s a declared winner in the yearly race between spring and starvation.

　　It also happens that deer find arborvitae a delicacy, related to the cedar that they also love, but thicker and more succulent. By the second winter they’d found and attacked my trees. I fought back, not with a vengeance—I stopped short of that—but with something close to obsession. I erected fence structures that made our backyard look like a scene from the Somme. I played recordings of wolves howling, recordings of me howling. I fired pistol shots at random hours of the night. I hung or sprinkled repellents of blood meal, urine, (mine), and deodorant soap. Hearing that deer were repelled by the scent of human hair, I asked some hair dressers to set aside their sweepings in a bag with, as the saying goes, my name on it.

　　As any warden will tell you, if deer are hungry enough they will get through anything, which this year included an electric fence hooked to a charger supposedly powerful enough to deter an elephant. So the farmer who’d helped me rig it up assured me. What he did not tell me, because he did not know, was that the insulating snowpack would prevent an animal from completing the circuit with the ground. In came the deer like a school of piranhas. This was shortly after a man from Connecticut purchased the hayfield behind our house for a price few of my neighbors could afforded and none of them could believe and set about measuring the foundations of a house.

Why did the electric fence fail? It is because of _____.

About a dozen years ago my wife and I planted a hedge of twenty-seven arborvitae trees along the border of our backyard, which, although our house sits on nineteen acres of fields and woods, is also the back border of our property. A sloping hayfield with a realtor’s dream of panoramic views lies directly behind us. So the hedge was our attempt to secure privacy for the future. The nurseryman who sold us the shrubs assured us they were the best species for our purpose and climate. I measured and marked the planting sites, called in “Chink” Norris (whose possibly racist nickname I’ve not looked into any more than I have the nurseryman’s credentials) to come with his small backhoe and dig the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the holes. As advised, I faithfully watered and fertilized each tree throughout the first year, with results that were everything I’d been promised: dense, hardy, and luxuriant, a towering bulwark of green. Thus began an episode of great vexation and buffoonery in my life, known and (I have no doubt) merrily recounted in local circles as the tale of “Garret and his trees”, or as my wife puts it, “Garret and the deer.” It so happens that we live next to one of the county’s most extensive “deer yard”, those areas of canopied woods to which the deer retire in winter, making networks of deeply furrowed tracks and foraging as best they can until there’s a declared winner in the yearly race between spring and starvation.

　　It also happens that deer find arborvitae a delicacy, related to the cedar that they also love, but thicker and more succulent. By the second winter they’d found and attacked my trees. I fought back, not with a vengeance—I stopped short of that—but with something close to obsession. I erected fence structures that made our backyard look like a scene from the Somme. I played recordings of wolves howling, recordings of me howling. I fired pistol shots at random hours of the night. I hung or sprinkled repellents of blood meal, urine, (mine), and deodorant soap. Hearing that deer were repelled by the scent of human hair, I asked some hair dressers to set aside their sweepings in a bag with, as the saying goes, my name on it.

　　As any warden will tell you, if deer are hungry enough they will get through anything, which this year included an electric fence hooked to a charger supposedly powerful enough to deter an elephant. So the farmer who’d helped me rig it up assured me. What he did not tell me, because he did not know, was that the insulating snowpack would prevent an animal from completing the circuit with the ground. In came the deer like a school of piranhas. This was shortly after a man from Connecticut purchased the hayfield behind our house for a price few of my neighbors could afforded and none of them could believe and set about measuring the foundations of a house.

What measure was NOT taken by the author to deter the deer?