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Motorways are, no doubt the safest roads in Britain. Mile (21) mile, vehicle for ve hicle, you arc much (22) likely to be killed or seriously injured than on an ordinary road. On (23) hand, if you do have a serious accident on a motorway, fatalities are much more likely to (24) than in a comparable accident (25) on the roads. Motorways have no (26) bends, no roundabouts or traffic lights and (27) speeds are much greater than on other roads. Though the 70 mph limit is (28) in force, it is of ten treated with the contempt that most drivers have for the 30 mph limit applying in built up areas in Britain. Added to this is the fact that motorway drivers seem to like traveling in groups with perhaps (29) ten meters between each vehicle. The resulting horrific pile-ups (30) one vehicle stops for some reason--mechanical failure, driver error and so on—have become all (31) familiar through pictures in newspapers or on television. How (32) of these drivers realize that it takes a car about one hundred meters to brake to a stop (33) 70 mph.9 Drivers also seem to think that motorway driving gives them complete protection from the changing weather. (34) wet the road, whatever the visibility in mist or fog, they (35) at ridiculous speeds oblivious of police warnings or speed restrictions (36) their journey comes to a conclusion. Perhaps one remedy (37) this motorway madness would be better driver educa tion. At present, learner drivers are barred (38) motorways and are thus as far as this kind of driving is (39) , thrown in at the deep end. However, much more efficient poli cing is required, (40) it is the duty of the police not only to enforce the law but also to protect the general public from its own foolishness.
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4 The crucial years of the Depression, as they are brought into historical focus, in creasingly emerge as the decisive decade for American art, if not for American culture in general. For it was during this decade that many of the conflicts which had blocked the pro gress of American art in the past came to a head and sometimes boiled over. Janus-faced, the thirties look backward, sometimes as far as the Renaissance; and at the same time for ward, as far as the present and beyond. It was the moment when artists, like Thomas Hart Benton, who wished to turn back the clock to regain the virtues of simpler times came into direct conflict with others, like Stuart Davis and Frank Lloyd Wright, who were ready to come to terms with the Machine Age and to deal with its consequences. America in the thirties was changing rapidly. In many areas the past was giving way to the present, although not without a struggle. A Predominantly rural and small town society was be ing replaced by the giant complexes of the big cities; power was becoming increasingly centralized in the federal government and in large corporations. Many Americans, deeply attached to the old way of life, felt disinherited. At the same time, as immigration decreased and the population became more homogeneous, the need arose in art and literature to commemorate the ethnic and regional differences that were fast disappearing. Thus, paradoxically, the conviction that art, at least, should serve some purpose or carry some message of moral uplift grew stronger as the Puritan ethos lost its contemporary reality. Often this elevating message was a sermon in favor of just those traditional American virtues, which were now threat ened with obsolescence in a changed social and political context. In this new context, the appeal of the paintings by the regionalists and the American Scene painters often lay in their ability to recreate an atmosphere that glorified the traditional American values—self-reliance tempered with good-neighborliness, independence modified by a sense of community, hard work rewarded by a sense of order and purpose. Given the actual temper of the times, these themes were strangely anachronistic, just as the rhetoric supporting political isola tionism was equally inappropriate in an international situation soon to involve America in a second world war. Such themes gained popularity because they filled a genome need for a comfortable collective fantasy of a God-fearing, white-picketfence America, which in retrospect took on the nostalgic appeal of a lost Golden Age. In this light, an autonomous art-for-art’s sake was viewed as a foreign invader liable to subvert the native American desire for a purposeful art. Abstract art was assigned the role of the villainous alien; realism was to personify the genuine American means of ex pression. The arguments drew favor in many camps: among the artists, because most were realists; among the politically oriented intellectuals, because abstract art was apoliti cal; and among museum officials, because they were surfeited with mediocre imitations of European modernism and were convinced that American art must develop its own distinct identity. To help along this road to self-definition, the museums were prepared to set up an artificial double standard, one for American art, and another for European art. In 1934, Ralph Flint wrote in Art News, "We have today in our midst a greater array of what may be called second-, third-, and fourth-string artists than any other country. Our big annuals are marvelous outpourings of intelligence and skill~ they have all the diversity and anima tion of a fine-ring circus. \ The second paragraph deals mainly with______in Americ
3 The blue, mystic Lake Ellsinore lies in an inland California valley, which is teeming and steaming with hot springs. Rimmed by shaggy mountains whose forested crests are re flected in its clear waters, Lake Ellsinore is the very personification of peace—but on it rests the curse of Tondo. The lake had a colorful history. Much of it lies buried in legend, and it is difficult to separate fact from fiction. There have been stories of underground volcanoes on the lake bottom, erupting, killing fish and discoloring the water. There have been stories of a play ful sea serpent that lived in its depths. Long noted for its scenic beauty and health-giving waters, the lake was a famous re sort in the Nineties. But long before the first white man had set foot along the shore of the lake, this part of California had been the home of the Soboba Indians. Their chief was Ton do, a stern and unforgiving man. He had a daughter, Morning Star, who was in love with Palo, son of the chief the Pales, a neighboring tribe. The Sobobas and Pales were sworn enemies. For a time the lov ers met secretly. Then one day they were discovered by Tondo. His rage was terrible to be hold. He forbade the lovers ever to meet again. Morning Star tried in every way to appease her father’s anger, to soften his heart to ward Palo. But in time she saw that it was useless; that he would never give his consent to their marriage. Vowing that they would never be separated, the Indian maid and her lover walked hand in hand into the lake, as the dreary November sun cast long shadows on the land. They were followed by a group of orphan children whom Morning Star had befrien ded. All walked into the lake, singing the mournful death song of their people, while Ton do stood on the shore and cursed the lovers, cursed the blue water into which they all walked to their death. Ever since that day it would see that a jinx has been laid over Lake Ellsinore. Old-tim ers tell of a great upheaval in the lake which caused water to spout into the air like a geyser and turn blood-red. Later, it became known that three hundred springs of boiiing mud and water were born in the valley during that upheaval. The springs reeked with sulphur. For many years after this phenomenon the lake remained peaceful. Then boats were overturned for an apparent reason, and few of their occupants ever returned to tell the story. This continued for several years. At the same time, strong swimmers dived into the lake never to reappear. In 1833 and again in 1846, fish in the lake suddenly died. In the spring of 1850 came the Battle of the Gnats. They bred in the water of the lake and swarmed over the land. They invaded the countryside until the harassed inhabitants called for help. And in July 1951, the sky-blue waters of the lake vanished like mist before a noonday sun. When the bottom was laid bare there was no trace of a volcano, the bottomless pits, or the other disturbances of legend or fact. The copious winter rains of 1951—1952 have replenished the lake. But what menace does its haunting beauty hold today For tomorrow The once mighty Sobobas are few now. But the old men swear that their ancestors still haunt the lake. They nod grizzled head and murmur that the Great Tondo’s curse will for ever remain upon the lake. Only Time, the wise and silent one, can tell. Probably Tondo’s rage was due to the fact that______.
3 The blue, mystic Lake Ellsinore lies in an inland California valley, which is teeming and steaming with hot springs. Rimmed by shaggy mountains whose forested crests are re flected in its clear waters, Lake Ellsinore is the very personification of peace—but on it rests the curse of Tondo. The lake had a colorful history. Much of it lies buried in legend, and it is difficult to separate fact from fiction. There have been stories of underground volcanoes on the lake bottom, erupting, killing fish and discoloring the water. There have been stories of a play ful sea serpent that lived in its depths. Long noted for its scenic beauty and health-giving waters, the lake was a famous re sort in the Nineties. But long before the first white man had set foot along the shore of the lake, this part of California had been the home of the Soboba Indians. Their chief was Ton do, a stern and unforgiving man. He had a daughter, Morning Star, who was in love with Palo, son of the chief the Pales, a neighboring tribe. The Sobobas and Pales were sworn enemies. For a time the lov ers met secretly. Then one day they were discovered by Tondo. His rage was terrible to be hold. He forbade the lovers ever to meet again. Morning Star tried in every way to appease her father’s anger, to soften his heart to ward Palo. But in time she saw that it was useless; that he would never give his consent to their marriage. Vowing that they would never be separated, the Indian maid and her lover walked hand in hand into the lake, as the dreary November sun cast long shadows on the land. They were followed by a group of orphan children whom Morning Star had befrien ded. All walked into the lake, singing the mournful death song of their people, while Ton do stood on the shore and cursed the lovers, cursed the blue water into which they all walked to their death. Ever since that day it would see that a jinx has been laid over Lake Ellsinore. Old-tim ers tell of a great upheaval in the lake which caused water to spout into the air like a geyser and turn blood-red. Later, it became known that three hundred springs of boiiing mud and water were born in the valley during that upheaval. The springs reeked with sulphur. For many years after this phenomenon the lake remained peaceful. Then boats were overturned for an apparent reason, and few of their occupants ever returned to tell the story. This continued for several years. At the same time, strong swimmers dived into the lake never to reappear. In 1833 and again in 1846, fish in the lake suddenly died. In the spring of 1850 came the Battle of the Gnats. They bred in the water of the lake and swarmed over the land. They invaded the countryside until the harassed inhabitants called for help. And in July 1951, the sky-blue waters of the lake vanished like mist before a noonday sun. When the bottom was laid bare there was no trace of a volcano, the bottomless pits, or the other disturbances of legend or fact. The copious winter rains of 1951—1952 have replenished the lake. But what menace does its haunting beauty hold today For tomorrow The once mighty Sobobas are few now. But the old men swear that their ancestors still haunt the lake. They nod grizzled head and murmur that the Great Tondo’s curse will for ever remain upon the lake. Only Time, the wise and silent one, can tell. According to the old-timers, on two occasions______.
1 The next time the men were taken up onto the deck, Kunta made a point of looking at the man behind him in Mine, the one who May beside him to the left when they were be low. He was a Serer tribesman much older than Kunta, and his body, front and back, was creased with whip cuts, some of them so deep and festering that Kunta, felt badly for having wished sometimes that he might strike the man in the darkness for moaning so steadily in his pain. Staring hack at Kunta, the Serer’s dark eyes were full of fury and defi ance. A whip lashed out even as they stood looking at each other this time at Kunta, spurring him to move ahead. Trying to roll away, Kunta was kicked heavily in his ribs. But somehow he and the gasping Wolof managed to stagger back up among the other men from their shelf who were shambling toward their dousing with bucked of seawater. A moment later, the stinging saltiness of it was burning in Kunta’s wounds, and his screams joined those of others over the sound of the drum and the wheezing thing that had again begun marking time for the chained men to jump and dance for the toubob. Kunta and the WoMof were so weak from their new beating that twice they stumbled, but whip blows and kicks sent them hopping clumsily up and down in their chains. So great was his fury that Kunta was barely aware of the women singing "Toubob fa!" And when he had finally been chained back down in his place in the dark hold, his heart throbbed with a lust to murder toubob. Every few days the eight naked toubob would again come into the stinking darkness and scrape their tubs full of the excrement that had accumulated on the shelves where the chained men May. Kunta would lie still with his eyes staring balefully in hatred, foMlowing the bobbing orange lights, listening to the toubob cursing and sometimes slipping and tail ing into the slickness underfoot—so plentiful now, because of the increasing looseness of the men’s bowels, that the filth had begun to drop off the edges of the shelves down into the aisMeway. The last time they were on deck, Kunta had noticed a man limping on a badly infected leg. This time the man was kept up on deck when the rest were taken back beMow. A few days later, the women told the other prisoners in their singing that the man’s leg had been cut off and that one of the women had been brought to tend him, but that the man had died that night and been thrown over the side. Starting then, when the toubob came to clean the shelves, they also dropped red-hot pieces of metal into pails of strong vine gar. The clouds of acrid steam left the hold smelling better, but soon it would again be overwhelmed by the choking stink. It was a smell that Kunta felt would never leave his lungs and skin. The steady murmuring that went on in the hold whenever the toubob were gone kept growing in volume and intensity as the men began to communicate better and better with one another. Words not understood were whispered from mouth to ear along the shelves until someone who knew more than one tongue would send back their meanings. In the process, all of the men along each shelf learned new words in tongues they had not spoken before. Sometimes men jerked upward, bumping their heads, in the double excitement of communicating with each other and the fact that it was being done without the toubob’s knowledge. Muttering among themselves for hours, the men developed a deepening sense of intrigue and of brotherhood. Though they were of different villages and tribes, the feel ing grew that they were not from different peoples or places. Which of the following words is closest in meaning to balefully as used in "Kunta would lie still with his eyes staring balefully in hatred. "
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