Modern Fiction & Nonfiction Unit Review

Multiple Choice

Part A: From "The Inside Search".

Which central idea does Zora Neale Hurston develop in "The Inside Search"?

• Zora is a voracious reader who loves going to school and learning

• Because of Zora’s ability to read well, two white women invite her to their hotel.

• Zora discovers that by using her intelligence, doors of opportunity will open for her.

• “They overtook me and flung me onto the pavement. I yelled, pleaded, kicked, but they wrenched the money out of my hand.”

Multiple Choice

Part B: From "The Inside Search".

Which detail from the text best helps to develop the central idea in Part A?

• "First thing, the ladies gave me strange things, like stuffed dates and preserved ginger, and encouraged me to eat all that I wanted."

• "They asked me if I loved school, and I lied that I did. There was some truth in it, because I liked geography and reading and I liked to play at recess time."

• "My chums pretended not to like anything that I had, but even then I knew that they were jealous. Old Smarty had gotten by them again."

• "The story of the choice of Hercules as a boy when he met Pleasure and Duty, and put his hand in that of Duty and followed her steep way to the blue hills of fame and glory,…moved me profoundly. I resolved to be like him."

Multiple Choice

Part A: From "Black Boy".

Which central idea does Richard Wright develop in the excerpt from Black Boy?

• Richard must face his fears and the boys who harm him to help feed his family.

• Richard is abandoned by his father, and his mother refuses to help him when he is beaten in the streets.

• When his father abandons his family, Richard steps up and becomes the man of the house.

• A gang of boys in the neighborhood beat Richard and steal his grocery money several times.

Multiple Choice

Part B: From "Black Boy".

Which detail from the text best helps to develop the central idea in Part A?

• “I hit again and again, dropping the money and the grocery list. The boys scattered, yelling, nursing their heads, staring at me in utter disbelief. They had never seen such frenzy.”

• “Sometimes, …she would …talk to us for hours, telling us that we now had no father, that our lives would be different from those of other children, that we must learn as soon as possible to take care of ourselves…”

• “One evening my mother told me that thereafter I would have to do the shopping for food. She took me to the corner store to show me the way. I was proud; I felt like a grownup.”

• “They overtook me and flung me onto the pavement. I yelled, pleaded, kicked, but they wrenched the money out of my hand.”

Multiple Choice

Part A: From Faulkner's "Upon Receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1950"

Which central idea does William Faulkner develop in “Upon Receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1950”?

• Writers have forgotten that the only subjects worth writing about are problems of the heart in conflict with itself.

• Writers must write about the fear of living in a time of the threat of nuclear war.

• Faulkner believes that writers need to write with love, hope, courage, and compassion.

• Faulkner states that writers of his time write only about lust and not about love or subjects of value.

Multiple Choice

Part B: From Faulkner's "Upon Receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1950"

Which detail from the text best helps to develop the central idea in Part A?

• “It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.”

• “Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it.”

• “He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion.”

• “Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man.”

Multiple Select

Read the excerpt from Black Boy by Richard Wright.

My mother finally went to work as a cook and left me and my bother alone in the flat each day with a loaf of bread and a pot of tea. When she returned in the evening she would be tired and dispirited and would cry a lot. Sometimes, when she was in despair, she would call us to her and talk to us for hours,…

What does the use of the word dispirited suggest?

Select the two correct answers.

• Richard’s mother is overwhelmed by all her responsibilities.

• Richard’s mother is discouraged about how hard things are.

• His mother feels guilty about leaving him home alone.

• His mother misses her sons while she’s away all day.

Multiple Select

Read the excerpt from "The Inside Search" by Zora Neale Hurston.

One hundred goldy-new pennies rolled out of the cylinder. Their gleam lit up the world. It was not avarice that moved me. It was the beauty of the thing. I stood on the mountain. Mama let me play with my pennies for a while, then put them away for me to keep.

What does the use of the word avarice suggest?

 Select the two correct answers.

• Zora is not concerned with what she can buy with the pennies.

• Zora is excited by the shininess of the pennies.

• Zora doesn’t feel a desire to gain any more pennies.

• The pennies do not entice Zora to be greedy.

Multiple Select

Read the excerpt from "Upon Receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature" by William Faulkner.

He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed—love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice.

What does the use of the word ephemeral suggest?

Select the two correct answers.

• A story without heart will be short lived.

• Stories written without truthfulness won’t last long.

• Writers too fearful to write truthfully are criticized.

• A writer must never let go of fear if he wants to be successful.

Multiple Choice

Read this excerpt from Black Boy by Richard Wright.

“No,” she said. “Go now! If you come back into this house without those groceries, I’ll whip you!”

She slammed the door and I heard the key turn the lock. I shook with fright. I was alone upon the dark, hostile streets and gangs were after me. I had the choice of being beaten at home or away from home. I clutched the stick, crying, trying to reason. If I were beaten at home, there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it; but if I were beaten in the streets, I had a chance to fight and defend myself.

Which viewpoint does Wright convey in the excerpt?

• Even as a young boy, Richard has nowhere to turn for help.

• He knows that he has no choice but to face the gang of boys and his fear.

• He understands that his mother is forcing him to grow up and be a man too soon.

• Richard feels powerless against his mother’s dominance and knows he must obey her.

Multiple Choice

Read this excerpt from “The Inside Search” by Zora Neale Hurston.

The next day I received an Episcopal hymn-book bound in white leather with a golden cross stamped into the front cover, a copy of The Swiss Family Robinson, and a book of fairy tales. I set about to commit the song words to memory. There was no music written there, just the words. But there was to my consciousness music in between them just the same. “When I survey the Wondrous Cross” seemed the most beautiful to me, so I committed that to memory first of all. Some of them seemed dull and without life, and I pretended they were not there. If white people liked trashy singing like that, there must be something funny about them that I had not noticed before. I stuck to the pretty ones where the words marched to a throb I could feel.

Which viewpoint does Hurston convey in the excerpt?

• She is moved by the words in the hymn-book, and they create music for her.

• She thinks the songs white people enjoy shows that they have no taste.

• She becomes curious about why the hymn-books don’t include the music to the hymns.

• She feels that she needs to pay more attention to white people and their actions.

Multiple Choice

Read this excerpt from “Upon Receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1950” by William Faulkner.

He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed—love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Which viewpoint does Faulkner convey in the excerpt?

• He believes that writers must overcome their fears and write from the heart about global human truths.

• He thinks that most writers write stories that have nothing important to say and will be forgotten.

• He is weary of reading stories that are poorly written and that have no conflict to overcome.

• He thinks that writers who are fearful are cursed and will not achieve success in their careers.

Multiple Choice

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

What is Cather's purpose in writing "An Art of Fiction"?

• to explain that writing as an art form needs to be unique and refined

• to warn new writers how they can avoid obstacles in their writing

• to describe the merits of a good reportorial story so it is pertinent in the future

• to argue the difference between journalism and writing as an art form

Multiple Choice

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

What is Cather's purpose in writing "An Art of Fiction"?

• to suggest writers focus on a higher standard by condensing their writing to a universal idea

• to contrast stories that are artful with those for which there is a demand in the market

• to help writers create the best work that reflects their personal truths

• to outline the conventions of form and detail a writer can do without to achieve an artful piece

Multiple Choice

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

What is Cather's purpose in writing "An Art of Fiction"?

Responses

• to explain the obstacles that writers must overcome to do good work

• to compare the process of writing a story with painting a portrait

• to suggest that writing for market demand is less worthy than writing as an art

• to explain to new writers that courage and ability do not come all at once

Multiple Select

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

Which key details should be included in an effective summary of "On the Art of Fiction" by Willa Cather?

• Young writers must condense their ideas instead of multiplying them.

• A first-rate novel must have a dozen good stories that have been sacrificed to it.

• Writers should manufacture only stories that the market demands.

• A good reportorial story should be interesting and pertinent today but not tomorrow.

Multiple Choice

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

Which key details should NOT be included in an effective summary of "On the Art of Fiction" by Willa Cather?

• Writing as art should be something new and untried, with intrinsic value.

• A new artist is committed to old forms and ideals.

• To write with a higher artistic process, one must cut away excess details but retain the spirit of them all.

• Writers want to get a return on every theme and situation, even if it is poor and thin.

Multiple Select

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

Which key details should be included in an effective summary of "On the Art of Fiction" by Willa Cather?

• The higher artistic process is knowing which conventions of form to eliminate yet preserve the spirit of the whole.

• Lively pieces of reporting are a novelty that set up poor standards of writing.

• The artist Millet drew hundreds of sketches before painting the spirit of them all into one picture.

• Cather believes that art should simplify, which is the whole of the higher artistic process.

Multiple Choice

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

Read the sentence from paragraph 1 of “On the Art of Fiction.”

They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself.

What is the connotative meaning of the phrase “get returns on every situation” as it is used in the excerpt?

• It implies an expectation of success or money.

• It suggests getting the piece published.

• It means "to become a novelty."

• It suggests something that is long lasting.

Multiple Choice

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

Read the sentence from paragraph 2 of “On the Art of Fiction.”

That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page.

What is the connotative meaning of the phrase “in type on the page” as it is used in the excerpt?

• It indicates that even though the writer cuts extraneous details, the meaning of the ideas still remains.

• It implies that higher-level ideas are presented in the final piece of writing.

• It suggests that the writer included explanations to make it easier for readers' understanding.

• It emphasizes that only those ideas the writer wants the reader to know have been set in print.

Multiple Choice

Read the passage.

On the Art of Fiction by Willa Cather

One is sometimes asked about the "obstacles" that confront young writers who are trying to do good work. I should say the greatest obstacles that writers today have to get over, are the dazzling journalistic successes of twenty years ago, stories that surprised and delighted by their sharp photographic detail and that were really nothing more than lively pieces of reporting. The whole aim of that school of writing was novelty--never a very important thing in art. They gave us, altogether, poor standards--taught us to multiply our ideas instead of to condense them. They tried to make a story out of every theme that occurred to them and to get returns on every situation that suggested itself. They got returns, of a kind. But their work, when one looks back on it, now that the novelty upon which they counted so much is gone, is journalistic and thin. The especial merit of a good reportorial story is that it shall be intensely interesting and pertinent today and shall have lost its point by tomorrow.

Art, it seems to me, should simplify. That, indeed, is very nearly the whole of the higher artistic process; finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole--so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page. Millet had done hundreds of sketches of peasants sowing grain, some of them very complicated and interesting, but when he came to paint the spirit of them all into one picture, "The Sower," the composition is so simple that it seems inevitable. All the discarded sketches that went before made the picture what it finally became, and the process was all the time one of simplifying, of sacrificing many conceptions good in themselves for one that was better and more universal.

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it. A good workman can't be a cheap workman; he can't be stingy about wasting material, and he cannot compromise. Writing ought either to be the manufacture of stories for which there is a market demand—a business as safe and commendable as making soap or breakfast foods--or it should be an art, which is always a search for something for which there is no market demand, something new and untried, where the values are intrinsic and have nothing to do with standardized values. The courage to go on without compromise does not come to a writer all at once--nor, for that matter, does the ability. Both are phases of natural development. In the beginning the artist, like his public, is wedded to old forms, old ideals, and his vision is blurred by the memory of old delights he would like to recapture.

Read the sentence from paragraph 3 of “On the Art of Fiction.”

Any first rate novel or story must have in it the strength of a dozen fairly good stories that have been sacrificed to it.

What is the connotative meaning of the phrase “first rate novel or story” as it is used in the excerpt?

• It indicates that the writing is of high quality.

• It implies that the novel or story is very popular.

• It suggests that the writer is experienced.

• It indicates that the novel or story is expensive.

Multiple Select

In “A Wagner Matinee,” even though Aunt Georgiana has adapted to her life on the prairie, it is clear she misses music.

Which details support this conclusion?

Select the three correct answers.

• "'Don’t love it so well, Clark, or it may be taken from you. Oh! dear boy, pray that whatever your sacrifice be it is not that.'"

• "She taught me my scales and exercises, too, on the little parlor organ which her husband had bought her after fifteen years,…”

• "From the time we entered the concert hall, however, she was a trifle less passive and inert, and seemed to begin to perceive her surroundings."

• "When the violins drew out the first strain of the Pilgrims’ chorus, my Aunt Georgiana clutched my coat sleeve."

• "She preserved this utter immobility throughout the numbers from The Flying Dutchman, though her fingers worked mechanically upon her black dress, as though of themselves they were recalling the piano score they had once played."

Multiple Select

In “In Another Country,” the men are told by the doctors that the machines will help restore the function of their limbs, but the men appear doubtful.

Which details support this conclusion?

Select the three correct answers.

• "…the machine was to bend the knee and make it move as riding a tricycle. But it did not bend yet, and instead the machine lurched when it came to the bending part."

• "The major held the photograph with his good hand and looked at it very carefully…."'You have confidence?' 'No,' said the major."

• "The photographs did not make much difference to the major because he only looked out of the window."

• "In front of the machine the major used were three photographs of hands like his that we completely restored."

• "…we met every afternoon and were all very polite and interested in what was the matter, and sat in the machines that were to make so much difference."

Multiple Select

Despite the challenges Phoenix experiences on her way to town in “A Worn Path,” she maintains an upbeat attitude.

Which details support this conclusion?

Select the three correct answers.

• "'A pleasure I don’t see no two-headed snake coming around that tree, where I come once.'"

• "She found a coat and inside that an emptiness, cold as ice. ‘You scarecrow,’ she said. Her face lighted. 'I ought to be shut up for good,' she said with laughter."

• "'Lying on my back like a June bug waiting to be turned over, mister,' she said, reaching up her hand."

• "But something held Old Phoenix very still. The deep lines in her face went into a fierce and different radiation."

• "'No, sir, I seen plenty go off closer by, in my day, and for less than what I done,' she said, holding utterly still."

Multiple Select

Why does Welty end “The Worn Path” with the line “Then her slow step began on the stairs, going down”?

Select the two correct answers.

• It shows that Phoenix is beginning the long walk back home to her grandson.

• It helps readers understand the strength and determination of Phoenix’s character.

• It helps to remind readers that Phoenix is a feeble old woman.

• It makes readers wonder what Phoenix will encounter on her way back home.

Multiple Select

Why does Cather end “A Wagner Matinee” with a description of Aunt Georgiana’s farm?

Select the two correct answers.

• Readers learn how much different settings affect the interests Georgiana has.  

• The description of the farm provides a stark contrast to what Georgiana has missed out on in cultured Boston.

• It allows readers to understand that Clark thinks his aunt made a big mistake when she moved to Nebraska.

• It shows that Clark purposefully took his aunt to the concert to show her what she gave up.

Multiple Select

Why does Hemingway end “In Another Country” with the doctor placing photographs depicting restored hands by the major’s machine and the narrator stating that the men are the first to use the machines?

Select the two correct answers.

• It evokes sympathy in readers about the outcome of the major's and the narrator's rehabilitation.

• It shows that the narrator isn’t fooled by the doctor’s statement that he will be able to play football again.

• It raises doubt about the doctor’s honesty and the effectiveness of the machines.

• It implies that the major continues to use the machines because it is the only hope he has left.

Multiple Choice

In “A Wagner Matinee,” Clark’s Aunt Georgiana comes to Boston on family business. Georgiana seems dazed by being in Boston, having lived in a small prairie town in Nebraska for the past 30 years. As a treat, Clark plans to take his aunt to a concert of Wagner music, knowing her love of music. But Clark wonders if it was a good idea.

Which excerpt from the story leaves matters uncertain for readers about Aunt Georgiana?

• "I spoke gently to her. She burst into tears and sobbed pleadingly, 'I don’t want to go, Clark, I don’t want to go!'"

• "'And you have been hearing this ever since you left me, Clark?' Her question was the gentlest and saddest of reproaches."

• "I was perplexed as to what measure of musical comprehension was left to her, to her who had heard nothing but the singing of gospel hymns in Methodist services at the square frame schoolhouse on Section Thirteen."

• "Soon after the tenor began the 'Prize Song,' I heard a quickdrawn breath, and turned to my aunt. Her eyes were closed, but the tears were glistening on her cheeks,"

Multiple Choice

In “A Wagner Matinee,” Clark’s Aunt Georgiana comes to Boston on family business. Georgiana seems dazed by being in Boston, having lived in a small prairie town in Nebraska for the past 30 years. As a treat, Clark plans to take his aunt to a concert of Wagner music, knowing her love of music. But Clark wonders if it was a good idea.

Which excerpt from the story leaves matters uncertain for readers about Aunt Georgiana?

• "She preserved this utter immobility throughout the numbers from The Flying Dutchman, though her fingers worked mechanically upon her black dress, as though of themselves they were recalling the piano score they had once played."

• "For thirty years my aunt had not been farther than fifty miles from the homestead."

• "'Don’t love it so well, Clark, or it may be taken from you. Oh! dear boy, pray that whatever your sacrifice be it is not that.'"

• "She questioned me absently about various changes in the city, but she was chiefly concerned that she had forgotten to leave instructions about feeding half-skimmed milk to a certain weakling calf…"

Multiple Choice

“In Another Country,” the narrator and other soldiers are injured during the war, and as part of their rehabilitation, they work out on machines that are supposed to restore their injured limbs to what they once were.

Which excerpt from the story leaves matters uncertain for readers about the success of the men's rehabilitation?

• "But it did not bend yet, and instead the machine lurched when it came to the bending part."

• "…he sat straight up in his chair with his right hand thrust into the machine and looked straight ahead at the wall while the straps thumped up and down with his fingers in them."

• "In front of the machine the major used were three photographs of hands like his that were completely restored. I do not know where the doctor got them. I always understood we were the first to use the machines."

• "…there were large framed photographs around the wall, of all sorts of wounds before and after they had been cured by the machines."