Leia o texto e responda à questão.

    Culture is really an integral part of the interaction between language and thought. Cultural patterns, customs, and ways of life are expressed in language; culture-specific world views are reflected in language. Each culture has at its disposal a particular range of colours, illustrating its particular world view on what color is and how to identify color. The African Shona and Bassa peoples, for example, have fewer color categories than speakers of European languages and they break up the spectrum at different points, as shown below:

    Of course, the Shona or Bassa are able to perceive and describe other colors, in the same way that an English speaker might describe a “dark bluish green”, but the labels which the language provides tend to shape the person’s overall cognitive organization of color and to cause varying degrees of color discrimination. Eskimo tribes commonly have as many as seven different words for snow to distinguish among different types of snow (falling snow, snow on the ground, fluffy snow, wet snow, etc.), whereas certain African cultures in the equatorial forests of Zaire have no word at all for snow.

(Douglas Brown. Principles of language learning and teaching. 5th ed. Longman, 2000. Adaptado)

Pete is talking to his English teacher about the strategies he has been using to study at home. He seems to have forgotten the phrasal verbs he was studying and trying to use during this conversation in order to impress the teacher. Read an extract of their dialogue: 

(…)

(Pete) – Phrasal verbs are so difficult! Well, I have been studying really, really hard. I have to learn so many things before the tests. There are some things I have been doing… For example, I try to… to…

memorize the expressions by reading them out loud several times a day.

(Teacher) – What else have you been doing that you consider effective?

(Pete) – I try to use the expressions and new words in stories… but often times they don’t… they don’t… make sense.

(Teacher) – There’s a phrasal verb for that.

(Pete) – I can’t remember it! I have to understand how I learn better…

(Teacher) – Maybe you are exaggerating a bit.

(Pete) – I am not. I have problems… reaching the same level of my classmates.

(Teacher) – I don’t agree with you, but if you feel you need to improve, we can talk about this later.

(Pete) – That would be great! Thank you!

Read the text below.

(CNN) US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo has denounced President Nicolas Maduro's obstruction of aid deliveries to Venezuela as the actions of a "sick tyrant." 

At the call of opposition leader and the nation's selfdeclared interim president, Juan Guaido, foreign aid has been shipped to Venezuela in response to worsening food and medicine shortages.

Maduro, who has been in a standoff with Guaido for the presidency, denies that a humanitarian crisis exists in Venezuela and suggests that aid efforts are part of a US plot to orchestrate a coup.

After Guaido named Saturday as the deadline for the aid to cross the border, Maduro vowed to stop the supplies from coming into the country. At a large rally in Caracas on Saturday, he dared the opposition to call for elections and called Guaido a "clown" and a "US puppet."

Trucks carrying supplies were blocked at most spots Saturday. Witnesses said two trucks were set ablaze while attempting to cross into Venezuela from Colombia.

Witnesses who spoke to CNN said the trucks went up in flames as Venezuelan troops loyal to Maduro prevented the vehicles from crossing the border. CNN cannot independently confirm the incident or the circumstances of how the two trucks were set on fire. National Assembly Representative and Guaido supporter Adriana Pichardo told CNN that at least five people were also killed in clashes with Venezuelan security forces on Saturday. CNN cannot independently confirm the number of fatalities.

Adapted from: https://edition.cnn.com/2019/02/24/americas/venezuela-pompeo-maduro-colombia/index.html. Acesso em: 24 de fevereiro de 2019. 

While at home in Ireland my poor mother wept bitter tears at the thought of her daughter with the university education serving hamburgers to pop stars.

I had been working there about six months the night I met James. It was a Friday night, which was traditionally the night the OJs frequented our restaurant. “OJ” standing, of course, for Office Jerks.

At five o’clock every Friday, like graves disgorging their dead, offices all over the center of London liberated their staffs for the weekend so that hordes of pale, cheapsuited clerks descended on us.

It was de rigueur for us waitresses to stand around sneering disdainfully at the besuited clientele, shaking our heads in disbelieving pity at the attire, hairstyles, etc., of the poor customers.

On the night in question, James and three of his colleagues sat in my section and I attended to their needs in my normal irresponsible and slapdash fashion. I paid them almost no attention whatsoever, barely listened to them as I took their order and certainly made no eye contact with them. If I had I might have noticed that one of them (yes, James, of course) was very handsome, in a black-haired, green-eyed, five-foottenish kind of way. I should have looked beyond the suit and seen the soul of the man.

Oh, shallowness, thy name is Clare.

But I wanted to be out back with the other waitresses, drinking beer and smoking and talking about sex. Customers were an unwelcome interference.

“Can I have my stake very rare?” asked one of the men.

“Um,” I said vaguely. I was even more uninterested than usual because I had noticed a book on the table. It was a really good book, one that I had read myself.

I loved books. And I loved reading. And I loved men who read. I loved a man who knew his existentialism from his magi-realism.And I had spent the last six months working with people who could just about manage to read Stage magazine (laboriously mouthing the words silently as they did so). I suddenly realized, with a pang, how much I missed the odd bit of intelligent conversation.

Suddenly the people at this table stopped being mere irritants and took on some sort of identity for me.

“Who owns this book?” I asked abruptly, interrupting the order placing.

The table of four men were startled. I had spoken to them! I had treated them almost as if they were human!

“I do,” said James, and as my blue eyes met his green eyes across his mango daiquiri, that was it, the silvery magic dust was sprinkled on us. In that instant something wonderful happened. From the moment we really looked at each other, we both knew we had met someone special.

I maintained that we fell in love immediately.

He maintained nothing of the sort, and said that I was a romantic fool. He claimed it took at least thirty seconds longer for him to fall in love with me.

First of all he had to establish that I had read the book in question also. Because he thought that I must be some kind of not-so-bright model or singer if I was working there. You know, the same way that I had written him off as some kind of subhuman clerk. Served me right.

KEYES, Marian. Watermelon. New York: Perennial, HarperCollins, 2002 (Edited).