SAT Scholastic Aptitude Test Set 8

Scott Fitzgerald was a prominent American writer of the twentieth century. This passage comes from one of his short stories and tells the story of a young John Unger leaving home for boarding school. John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades a small town on the Mississippi River for several generations. John's father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger was known "from hot-box to hot-bed," as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home That respect for a New England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas's School near Boston--Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son. Now in Hades--as you know if you ever have been there the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef-princess as "perhaps a little tacky." John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with money. "Remember, you are always welcome here," he said. "You can be sure, boy, that we'll keep the home fires burning." "I know," answered John huskily. "Don't forget who you are and where you come from," continued his father proudly, "and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger--from Hades." So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as "Hades--Your Opportunity," or else a plain "Welcome" sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought--but now. So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty. The "Chicago beef-princess" can best be described as representing the Chicago upper class by way of which literary device?

Scott Fitzgerald was a prominent American writer of the twentieth century. This passage comes from one of his short stories and tells the story of a young John Unger leaving home for boarding school. John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades a small town on the Mississippi River for several generations. John's father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger was known "from hot-box to hot-bed," as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home That respect for a New England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas's School near Boston--Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son. Now in Hades--as you know if you ever have been there the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef-princess as "perhaps a little tacky." John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with money. "Remember, you are always welcome here," he said. "You can be sure, boy, that we'll keep the home fires burning." "I know," answered John huskily. "Don't forget who you are and where you come from," continued his father proudly, "and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger--from Hades." So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as "Hades--Your Opportunity," or else a plain "Welcome" sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought--but now. So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty. The phrase "maternal fatuity", suggests that

Scott Fitzgerald was a prominent American writer of the twentieth century. This passage comes from one of his short stories and tells the story of a young John Unger leaving home for boarding school. John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades a small town on the Mississippi River for several generations. John's father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger was known "from hot-box to hot-bed," as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home That respect for a New England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas's School near Boston--Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son. Now in Hades--as you know if you ever have been there the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef-princess as "perhaps a little tacky." John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with money. "Remember, you are always welcome here," he said. "You can be sure, boy, that we'll keep the home fires burning." "I know," answered John huskily. "Don't forget who you are and where you come from," continued his father proudly, "and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger--from Hades." So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as "Hades--Your Opportunity," or else a plain "Welcome" sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought--but now. So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty. From the conversation between John and his father in paragraphs 36, it can be inferred that John feels

Scott Fitzgerald was a prominent American writer of the twentieth century. This passage comes from one of his short stories and tells the story of a young John Unger leaving home for boarding school. John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades a small town on the Mississippi River for several generations. John's father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger was known "from hot-box to hot-bed," as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home That respect for a New England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas's School near Boston--Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son. Now in Hades--as you know if you ever have been there the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef-princess as "perhaps a little tacky." John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with money. "Remember, you are always welcome here," he said. "You can be sure, boy, that we'll keep the home fires burning." "I know," answered John huskily. "Don't forget who you are and where you come from," continued his father proudly, "and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger--from Hades." So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as "Hades--Your Opportunity," or else a plain "Welcome" sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought--but now. So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty. John's meditation on the town's sign in the passage serves primarily to suggest a contrast between

Scott Fitzgerald was a prominent American writer of the twentieth century. This passage comes from one of his short stories and tells the story of a young John Unger leaving home for boarding school. John T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades a small town on the Mississippi River for several generations. John's father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger was known "from hot-box to hot-bed," as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home That respect for a New England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas's School near Boston--Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son. Now in Hades--as you know if you ever have been there the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they make a show of keeping up-to-date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef-princess as "perhaps a little tacky." John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocket-book stuffed with money. "Remember, you are always welcome here," he said. "You can be sure, boy, that we'll keep the home fires burning." "I know," answered John huskily. "Don't forget who you are and where you come from," continued his father proudly, "and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger--from Hades." So the old man and the young shook hands, and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the city limits and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as "Hades--Your Opportunity," or else a plain "Welcome" sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought--but now. So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty. The names Hades, St. Midas, and Unger suggest that the passage can be considered a(n)

This passage discusses the work of Abe Kobo, a Japanese novelist of the twentieth century. Abe Kobo is one of the great writers of postwar Japan. His literature is richer, less predictable, and wider-ranging than that of his famed contemporaries, Mishima Yukio and Nobel laureate Oe Kenzaburo. It is infused with the passion and strangeness of his experiences in Manchuria, which was a Japanese colony on mainland China before World War II. Abe spent his childhood and much of his youth in Manchuria, and, as a result, the orbit of his work would be far less controlled by the oppressive gravitational pull of the themes of furusato (hometown) and the emperor than his contemporaries'. Abe, like most of the sons of Japanese families living in Manchuria, did return to Japan for schooling. He entered medical school in Tokyo in 1944--just in time to forge himself a medical certificate claiming ill health; this allowed him to avoid fighting in the war that Japan was already losing and return to Manchuria. When Japan lost the war, however, it also lost its Manchurian colony. The Japanese living there were attacked by the Soviet Army and various guerrilla bands. They suddenly found themselves refugees, desperate for food. Many unfit men were abandoned in the Manchurian desert. At this apocalyptic time, Abe lost his father to cholera. He returned to mainland Japan once more, where the young were turning to Marxism as a rejection of the militarism of the war. After a brief, unsuccessful stint at medical school, he became part of a Marxist group of avant-garde artists. His work at this time was passionate and outspoken on political matters, adopting black humor as its mode of critique. During this time, Abe worked in the genres of theater, music, and photography. Eventually, he mimeographed fifty copies of his first "published" literary work, entitled Anonymous Poems, in 1947. It was a politically charged set of poems dedicated to the memory of his father and friends who had died in Manchuria. Shortly thereafter, he published his first novel, For a Signpost at the End of a Road, which imagined another life for his best friend who had died in the Manchurian desert. Abe was also active in the Communist Party, organizing literary groups for workingmen. Unfortunately, most of this radical early work is unknown outside Japan and underappreciated even in Japan. In early 1962, Abe was dismissed from the Japanese Liberalist Party. Four months later, he published the work that would blind us to his earlier oeuvre, Woman in the Dunes. It was director Teshigahara Hiroshi's film adaptation of Woman in the Dunes that brought Abe's work to the international stage. The movie's fame has wrongly led readers to view the novel as Abe's masterpiece. It would be more accurate to say that the novel simply marked a turning point in his career, when Abe turned away from the experimental and heavily political work of his earlier career. Fortunately, he did not then turn to furusato and the emperor after all, but rather began a somewhat more realistic exploration of his continuing obsession with homelessness and alienation. Not completely a stranger to his earlier commitment to Marxism, Abe turned his attention, beginning in the sixties, to the effects on the individual of Japan's rapidly urbanizing, growthdriven, increasingly corporate society. The word "infused" in 1st paragraph most closely means

This passage discusses the work of Abe Kobo, a Japanese novelist of the twentieth century. Abe Kobo is one of the great writers of postwar Japan. His literature is richer, less predictable, and wider-ranging than that of his famed contemporaries, Mishima Yukio and Nobel laureate Oe Kenzaburo. It is infused with the passion and strangeness of his experiences in Manchuria, which was a Japanese colony on mainland China before World War II. Abe spent his childhood and much of his youth in Manchuria, and, as a result, the orbit of his work would be far less controlled by the oppressive gravitational pull of the themes of furusato (hometown) and the emperor than his contemporaries'. Abe, like most of the sons of Japanese families living in Manchuria, did return to Japan for schooling. He entered medical school in Tokyo in 1944--just in time to forge himself a medical certificate claiming ill health; this allowed him to avoid fighting in the war that Japan was already losing and return to Manchuria. When Japan lost the war, however, it also lost its Manchurian colony. The Japanese living there were attacked by the Soviet Army and various guerrilla bands. They suddenly found themselves refugees, desperate for food. Many unfit men were abandoned in the Manchurian desert. At this apocalyptic time, Abe lost his father to cholera. He returned to mainland Japan once more, where the young were turning to Marxism as a rejection of the militarism of the war. After a brief, unsuccessful stint at medical school, he became part of a Marxist group of avant-garde artists. His work at this time was passionate and outspoken on political matters, adopting black humor as its mode of critique. During this time, Abe worked in the genres of theater, music, and photography. Eventually, he mimeographed fifty copies of his first "published" literary work, entitled Anonymous Poems, in 1947. It was a politically charged set of poems dedicated to the memory of his father and friends who had died in Manchuria. Shortly thereafter, he published his first novel, For a Signpost at the End of a Road, which imagined another life for his best friend who had died in the Manchurian desert. Abe was also active in the Communist Party, organizing literary groups for workingmen. Unfortunately, most of this radical early work is unknown outside Japan and underappreciated even in Japan. In early 1962, Abe was dismissed from the Japanese Liberalist Party. Four months later, he published the work that would blind us to his earlier oeuvre, Woman in the Dunes. It was director Teshigahara Hiroshi's film adaptation of Woman in the Dunes that brought Abe's work to the international stage. The movie's fame has wrongly led readers to view the novel as Abe's masterpiece. It would be more accurate to say that the novel simply marked a turning point in his career, when Abe turned away from the experimental and heavily political work of his earlier career. Fortunately, he did not then turn to furusato and the emperor after all, but rather began a somewhat more realistic exploration of his continuing obsession with homelessness and alienation. Not completely a stranger to his earlier commitment to Marxism, Abe turned his attention, beginning in the sixties, to the effects on the individual of Japan's rapidly urbanizing, growthdriven, increasingly corporate society. The author refers to "the orbit" of Abe's work (2nd paragraph) to emphasize that

This passage discusses the work of Abe Kobo, a Japanese novelist of the twentieth century. Abe Kobo is one of the great writers of postwar Japan. His literature is richer, less predictable, and wider-ranging than that of his famed contemporaries, Mishima Yukio and Nobel laureate Oe Kenzaburo. It is infused with the passion and strangeness of his experiences in Manchuria, which was a Japanese colony on mainland China before World War II. Abe spent his childhood and much of his youth in Manchuria, and, as a result, the orbit of his work would be far less controlled by the oppressive gravitational pull of the themes of furusato (hometown) and the emperor than his contemporaries'. Abe, like most of the sons of Japanese families living in Manchuria, did return to Japan for schooling. He entered medical school in Tokyo in 1944--just in time to forge himself a medical certificate claiming ill health; this allowed him to avoid fighting in the war that Japan was already losing and return to Manchuria. When Japan lost the war, however, it also lost its Manchurian colony. The Japanese living there were attacked by the Soviet Army and various guerrilla bands. They suddenly found themselves refugees, desperate for food. Many unfit men were abandoned in the Manchurian desert. At this apocalyptic time, Abe lost his father to cholera. He returned to mainland Japan once more, where the young were turning to Marxism as a rejection of the militarism of the war. After a brief, unsuccessful stint at medical school, he became part of a Marxist group of avant-garde artists. His work at this time was passionate and outspoken on political matters, adopting black humor as its mode of critique. During this time, Abe worked in the genres of theater, music, and photography. Eventually, he mimeographed fifty copies of his first "published" literary work, entitled Anonymous Poems, in 1947. It was a politically charged set of poems dedicated to the memory of his father and friends who had died in Manchuria. Shortly thereafter, he published his first novel, For a Signpost at the End of a Road, which imagined another life for his best friend who had died in the Manchurian desert. Abe was also active in the Communist Party, organizing literary groups for workingmen. Unfortunately, most of this radical early work is unknown outside Japan and underappreciated even in Japan. In early 1962, Abe was dismissed from the Japanese Liberalist Party. Four months later, he published the work that would blind us to his earlier oeuvre, Woman in the Dunes. It was director Teshigahara Hiroshi's film adaptation of Woman in the Dunes that brought Abe's work to the international stage. The movie's fame has wrongly led readers to view the novel as Abe's masterpiece. It would be more accurate to say that the novel simply marked a turning point in his career, when Abe turned away from the experimental and heavily political work of his earlier career. Fortunately, he did not then turn to furusato and the emperor after all, but rather began a somewhat more realistic exploration of his continuing obsession with homelessness and alienation. Not completely a stranger to his earlier commitment to Marxism, Abe turned his attention, beginning in the sixties, to the effects on the individual of Japan's rapidly urbanizing, growthdriven, increasingly corporate society. From the sentence beginning "He entered medical school", it can be inferred that

This passage discusses the work of Abe Kobo, a Japanese novelist of the twentieth century. Abe Kobo is one of the great writers of postwar Japan. His literature is richer, less predictable, and wider-ranging than that of his famed contemporaries, Mishima Yukio and Nobel laureate Oe Kenzaburo. It is infused with the passion and strangeness of his experiences in Manchuria, which was a Japanese colony on mainland China before World War II. Abe spent his childhood and much of his youth in Manchuria, and, as a result, the orbit of his work would be far less controlled by the oppressive gravitational pull of the themes of furusato (hometown) and the emperor than his contemporaries'. Abe, like most of the sons of Japanese families living in Manchuria, did return to Japan for schooling. He entered medical school in Tokyo in 1944--just in time to forge himself a medical certificate claiming ill health; this allowed him to avoid fighting in the war that Japan was already losing and return to Manchuria. When Japan lost the war, however, it also lost its Manchurian colony. The Japanese living there were attacked by the Soviet Army and various guerrilla bands. They suddenly found themselves refugees, desperate for food. Many unfit men were abandoned in the Manchurian desert. At this apocalyptic time, Abe lost his father to cholera. He returned to mainland Japan once more, where the young were turning to Marxism as a rejection of the militarism of the war. After a brief, unsuccessful stint at medical school, he became part of a Marxist group of avant-garde artists. His work at this time was passionate and outspoken on political matters, adopting black humor as its mode of critique. During this time, Abe worked in the genres of theater, music, and photography. Eventually, he mimeographed fifty copies of his first "published" literary work, entitled Anonymous Poems, in 1947. It was a politically charged set of poems dedicated to the memory of his father and friends who had died in Manchuria. Shortly thereafter, he published his first novel, For a Signpost at the End of a Road, which imagined another life for his best friend who had died in the Manchurian desert. Abe was also active in the Communist Party, organizing literary groups for workingmen. Unfortunately, most of this radical early work is unknown outside Japan and underappreciated even in Japan. In early 1962, Abe was dismissed from the Japanese Liberalist Party. Four months later, he published the work that would blind us to his earlier oeuvre, Woman in the Dunes. It was director Teshigahara Hiroshi's film adaptation of Woman in the Dunes that brought Abe's work to the international stage. The movie's fame has wrongly led readers to view the novel as Abe's masterpiece. It would be more accurate to say that the novel simply marked a turning point in his career, when Abe turned away from the experimental and heavily political work of his earlier career. Fortunately, he did not then turn to furusato and the emperor after all, but rather began a somewhat more realistic exploration of his continuing obsession with homelessness and alienation. Not completely a stranger to his earlier commitment to Marxism, Abe turned his attention, beginning in the sixties, to the effects on the individual of Japan's rapidly urbanizing, growthdriven, increasingly corporate society. The author uses the word "apocalyptic" to emphasize that

This passage discusses the work of Abe Kobo, a Japanese novelist of the twentieth century. Abe Kobo is one of the great writers of postwar Japan. His literature is richer, less predictable, and wider-ranging than that of his famed contemporaries, Mishima Yukio and Nobel laureate Oe Kenzaburo. It is infused with the passion and strangeness of his experiences in Manchuria, which was a Japanese colony on mainland China before World War II. Abe spent his childhood and much of his youth in Manchuria, and, as a result, the orbit of his work would be far less controlled by the oppressive gravitational pull of the themes of furusato (hometown) and the emperor than his contemporaries'. Abe, like most of the sons of Japanese families living in Manchuria, did return to Japan for schooling. He entered medical school in Tokyo in 1944--just in time to forge himself a medical certificate claiming ill health; this allowed him to avoid fighting in the war that Japan was already losing and return to Manchuria. When Japan lost the war, however, it also lost its Manchurian colony. The Japanese living there were attacked by the Soviet Army and various guerrilla bands. They suddenly found themselves refugees, desperate for food. Many unfit men were abandoned in the Manchurian desert. At this apocalyptic time, Abe lost his father to cholera. He returned to mainland Japan once more, where the young were turning to Marxism as a rejection of the militarism of the war. After a brief, unsuccessful stint at medical school, he became part of a Marxist group of avant-garde artists. His work at this time was passionate and outspoken on political matters, adopting black humor as its mode of critique. During this time, Abe worked in the genres of theater, music, and photography. Eventually, he mimeographed fifty copies of his first "published" literary work, entitled Anonymous Poems, in 1947. It was a politically charged set of poems dedicated to the memory of his father and friends who had died in Manchuria. Shortly thereafter, he published his first novel, For a Signpost at the End of a Road, which imagined another life for his best friend who had died in the Manchurian desert. Abe was also active in the Communist Party, organizing literary groups for workingmen. Unfortunately, most of this radical early work is unknown outside Japan and underappreciated even in Japan. In early 1962, Abe was dismissed from the Japanese Liberalist Party. Four months later, he published the work that would blind us to his earlier oeuvre, Woman in the Dunes. It was director Teshigahara Hiroshi's film adaptation of Woman in the Dunes that brought Abe's work to the international stage. The movie's fame has wrongly led readers to view the novel as Abe's masterpiece. It would be more accurate to say that the novel simply marked a turning point in his career, when Abe turned away from the experimental and heavily political work of his earlier career. Fortunately, he did not then turn to furusato and the emperor after all, but rather began a somewhat more realistic exploration of his continuing obsession with homelessness and alienation. Not completely a stranger to his earlier commitment to Marxism, Abe turned his attention, beginning in the sixties, to the effects on the individual of Japan's rapidly urbanizing, growthdriven, increasingly corporate society. The word "avant-garde" in this passage could best be replaced by