SSAT Upper Level Reading : Literary Fiction
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Example Questions
Example Question #362 : Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted from Emma by Jane Austen (1815)
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma. Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness. Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
Based on the passage, Miss Taylor began living in Mr. Woodhouse's household when Emma was approximately __________ years old.
fifteen
twelve
two
five
ten
five
Details in the passage can help you figure out approximately when Miss Taylor was hired as Emma’s governess. We are told in the first paragraph that Emma “had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her,” so she must be about twenty-one. At the start of the third paragraph, we are told,“Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a governess than a friend”; this means that Miss Taylor has been working for Mr. Woodhouse for sixteen years. Taking sixteen from twenty-one gives us five, so Miss Taylor must have hired when Emma was approximately five years old.
Example Question #142 : Literary Fiction
Adapted from Emma by Jane Austen (1815)
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma. Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness. Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
This passage likely appears near the __________ of a __________.
conclusion . . . magazine article
beginning . . . novel
end . . . fable
middle . . . scientific report
start . . . persuasive essay
beginning . . . novel
As we are being introduced to the main character seemingly for the first time in the first paragraph of this passage, we can infer that it would be found near the “beginning” or “start” of a text. This leaves us to choose whether it more likely appears in a “novel” or in a “persuasive essay.” The passage is structured as a narrative (it tells a story) instead of as a persuasive piece that attempts to convince the reader of the author’s opinion on a subject. This means that the correct answer is “beginning . . . novel.”
Example Question #11 : Identifying And Analyzing Main Idea And Theme In Literature Passages
Adapted from A Room With a View by E.M. Forster (1908)
"The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!"
"And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."
"This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.
"I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!"
"Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued, "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view."
Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me; of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose traveling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.
"No, no. You must have it."
"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy."
"She would never forgive me."
The ladies' voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbors interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:
"I have a view, I have a view."
Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”
The “Signora” __________.
cooks at the pension
cleans the pension's rooms
is difficult to understand because of her heavy Italian accent
is the wife of a prominent government official
runs the pension
runs the pension
Throughout the passage, we are told more than once that ""The Signora had no business to do it," "it" meaning give Lucy and Miss Bartlett different rooms than the rooms they were promised. We are also told that the Signora has a Cockney accent, perhaps from London. Based on this information and not extrapolating to any conclusions not supported by the text, we can answer that the Signora "runs the pension"; this we can tell because she is the one the women blame for switching their rooms, and someone who cooks or cleans at the pension would likely not have this power or responsibility. Nowhere is it suggested that the Signora is the wife of a prominent government official, and we are told that she has a Cockney accent, not an Italian one.
Example Question #202 : Content Of Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted from A Room With a View by E.M. Forster (1908)
"The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!"
"And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."
"This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.
"I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!"
"Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued, "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view."
Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me; of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose traveling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.
"No, no. You must have it."
"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy."
"She would never forgive me."
The ladies' voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbors interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:
"I have a view, I have a view."
Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”
The Arno is most likely __________.
a famous fountain in the courtyard
a specific district of London
a statue housed in a nearby museum
a river
a specific suite in the pension
a river
Throughout the passage, we are told few things about the Arno. We know that Lucy wants to see the Arno, as she says so in the fourth paragraph. The same paragraph tells us that "The rooms the Signora promised [them] in her letter would have looked over the Arno," so the Arno is something that can be "looked over." Based on these details, we can tell that the Arno isn't a suite in the pension, as rooms in the pension "look over" it. Similarly, the Arno cannot be "a statue in a nearby museum," because it would not be able to be seen from a room if it were in a museum. It makes no sense that the Arno would be "a specific district of London," as the two women are not in London in the passage. The Arno similarly cannot be "a famous fountain in the courtyard," as in the passage, the two women have rooms overlooking the courtyard yet are upset about not being able to see the Arno. The only remaining answer choice is the correct one: "a river." This makes sense, as a room might "look over" a river, and a river might be something one might want to see when traveling around in a foreign country.
Example Question #203 : Content Of Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted from A Room With a View by E.M. Forster (1908)
"The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!"
"And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."
"This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.
"I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!"
"Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued, "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view."
Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me; of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose traveling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.
"No, no. You must have it."
"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy."
"She would never forgive me."
The ladies' voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbors interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:
"I have a view, I have a view."
Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”
Which of the following can we infer from the passage?
Lucy and Miss Bartlett have been to London.
Lucy and Miss Bartlett are currently visiting London.
Lucy and Miss Bartlett are attending a wedding in a foreign country.
Lucy is a novelist.
Lucy and Miss Bartlett are sisters.
Lucy and Miss Bartlett have been to London.
In the second paragraph, Lucy recognizes the Signora's accent as a Cockney one and comments, "It might be London." After observing the English details of and people in the room, she adds, ""Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London?" In order to compare their current surroundings with London, both Lucy and Miss Bartlett would have had to have visited London before, so this is the correct answer. None of the other answers can be supported by the passage: since "Lucy's mother" paid for part of Miss Bartlett's traveling expenses, we can assume that the two women are not sisters, or Lucy's mother would also be Miss Bartlett's mother. We can infer that the women are not currently visiting London because Lucy compares the pension to London. No mention is made of Lucy's being a novelist or of the two women attending a wedding.
Example Question #101 : Understanding The Content Of Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted from A Room With a View by E.M. Forster (1908)
"The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!"
"And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired."
"This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.
"I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!"
"Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued, "but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a view."
Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me; of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose traveling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.
"No, no. You must have it."
"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy."
"She would never forgive me."
The ladies' voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbors interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:
"I have a view, I have a view."
Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”
Which is the most logical reason for the man to state “I have a view, I have a view” at the end of the passage?
He wants to support Lucy in her argument with Miss Bartlett.
He wants to support Miss Bartlett in her argument with Lucy.
He is about to suggest that the young women try to find better rooms at another pension.
He is about to suggest that the young women trade rooms with him.
He wants to provide evidence that certain rooms in the pension do actually have a view.
He is about to suggest that the young women trade rooms with him.
Lucy and Miss Bartlett's argument concerns which of them will take the first room with a view to free up, so the man's comment doesn't support either one in this argument. Lucy and Miss Bartlett never doubt that certain of the pension's rooms do have views, so it doesn't make sense that the man would say "I have a view" in order "to provide evidence that certain rooms in the pension do actually have a view." There is no connection between the man stating he has a view and him suggesting that the women find rooms at another pension. However, there is a logical connection between him telling them he has a view and offering to switch rooms with them, so this is the correct answer.
Example Question #41 : Extrapolating From The Text In Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted from “The Tell-Tale Heart” in The Pioneer by Edgar Allan Poe (1843)
True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! Would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who's there?"
Based on what the narrator states in the third paragraph, we can infer that the narrator __________.
will not kill the old man while his “evil eye” is closed
wants to wake the old man up at precisely midnight
lost count of how many days he looked in on the old man
suspects that the old man knows the narrator is watching him at night
at one point reconsidered his decision to kill the old man
will not kill the old man while his “evil eye” is closed
In the third paragraph, the narrator details his process of sneaking into the old man’s room and watching him around midnight for seven nights. While the logic of the narrator’s actions don’t make much sense—you may wonder why he does this at all—we can still pick up on patterns that belie the narrator’s methods. Toward the end of the paragraph, the narrator states, “I undid [the latch on the lantern] just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye.” From this statement, we can tell that the narrator will not kill the old man while his “evil eye” is closed. None of the other answers are supported by the passage; the narrator clearly knows how many days he looked in on the old man, as he tells us in the above quotation that he has looked in on the old man for seven days. Nowhere in the passage does the narrator reconsider his decision to kill the old man, or think that the old man knows that the narrator is watching him at night. While the narrator does end up waking up the old man, this happens later in the passage, on the eighth night related, and the narrator doesn’t do this on purpose.
Example Question #2 : Passage Reasoning In Humanities Passages
Adapted from "The Study of Poetry" in Essays in Criticism: Second Series by Matthew Arnold (1888)
"The future of poetry is immense because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies, humanity, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. There is not a creed which is not shaken, not an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, not a received tradition which does not threaten to dissolve. Our religion has materialized itself in the fact, in the supposed fact; it has attached its emotion to the fact, and now the fact is failing it. But for poetry the idea is everything; the rest is a world of illusion, of divine illusion. Poetry attaches its emotion to the idea; the idea is the fact. The strongest part of our religion today is its unconscious poetry."
Let me be permitted to quote these words of my own as uttering the thought which should, in my opinion, go with us and govern us in all our study of poetry. We should conceive of poetry worthily, and more highly than it has been the custom to conceive of it. We should conceive of it as capable of higher uses, and called to higher destinies, than those which in general men have assigned to it hitherto. More and more mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. Without poetry, our science will appear incomplete, and most of what now passes with us for religion and philosophy will be replaced by poetry. Science, I say, will appear incomplete without it. For finely and truly does Wordsworth call poetry “the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all science,” and what is a countenance without its expression? Again, Wordsworth finely and truly calls poetry “the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge”; our religion, parading evidences such as those on which the popular mind relies now; our philosophy, pluming itself on its reasonings about causation and finite and infinite being; what are they but the shadows and dreams and false shows of knowledge?
It can be inferred that the clause underlined in the first paragraph, "But for poetry, the idea is everything," most nearly means __________.
ideas are to poetry what fact is to religion
ideas are derived from poetry
ideas create the beauty in poetry
ideas reflect society and constitute poems
ideas build upon one another in the study of poetry
ideas are to poetry what fact is to religion
To best understand this line, you need to consider it in the context in which appears—that is, you need to pay attention to the lines surrounding it. The fact that it starts with "But" and instantiates a comaprison is a clue that context is particularly important here. Consider the line alongside the lines that come immediately before and after it:
"'Our religion has materialized itself in the fact, in the supposed fact; it has attached its emotion to the fact, and now the fact is failing it. But for poetry the idea is everything; the rest is a world of illusion, of divine illusion. Poetry attaches its emotion to the idea; the idea is the fact.'"
The contrast Arnold is drawing here contrasts religion's association with "the fact" with poetry's association with "the idea"—for poetry, Arnold argues, "the idea is the fact," or in other words, ideas are held the same central place in poetry that fact holds in religion. Thus, the correct answer choice is "ideas are to poetry what fact is to religion." This is the only answer choice that correctly reflects the comparison that the author is drawing.
Example Question #42 : Inferences And Predictions In Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted from "A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal" by William Wordsworth in Lyrical Ballads by William Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge (1800 ed.)
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
The underlined line "I had no human fears" __________.
demonstrates that the speaker is overwhelmed by the emotions he feels as a result of losing his loved one
demonstrates that the speaker realizes that his loved one has passed away
demonstrates the courage of the speaker regarding death
illustrates that the speaker is not human
helps establish that the speaker is in a dream
helps establish that the speaker is in a dream
In the first two lines of the poem, the speaker is in a dreamlike state. Thus, this line is used to establish the fact that the speaker has no humanly fears due to being in a slumber.
Example Question #43 : Inferences And Predictions In Literary Fiction Passages
Adapted from "A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal" by William Wordsworth in Lyrical Ballads by William Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge (1800 ed.)
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
The phrase "the touch of earthly years" can also be described as __________.
the nostalgia the narrator feels
the visual beauty of nature
a state in which people live, age, and eventually pass away
the ability of time to heal the narrator's heartbreak
the idea that everyone should seize the moment and live life to the fullest
a state in which people live, age, and eventually pass away
In this case, many of the answer choices extend too far beyond the scope of this line. In this particular line, Wordsworth is merely describing the state of living.
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