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Ano: 2023
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Q2324514
Inglês
Texto associado
Text 1A2-III
In January 1948, before three pistol shots put an end to his
life, Gandhi had been on the political stage for more than fifty
years. He had inspired two generations of Indian patriots, shaken
an empire and sparked off a revolution which was to change the
face of Africa and Asia. To millions of his own people, he was
the Mahatma — the great soul — whose sacred glimpse was a
reward in itself.
By the end of 1947 he had lived down much of the
suspicion, ridicule and opposition which he had to face, when he
first raised the banner of revolt against racial exclusiveness and
imperial domination. His ideas, once dismissed as quaint and
utopian, had begun to strike answering chords in some of the
finest minds in the world. “Generations to come, it may be,”
Einstein had said of Gandhi in July 1944, “will scarcely believe
that such a one as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon
earth.”
Though his life had been a continual unfolding of an
endless drama, Gandhi himself seemed the least dramatic of men.
It would be difficult to imagine a man with fewer trappings of
political eminence or with less of the popular image of a heroic
figure. With his loin cloth, steel-rimmed glasses, rough sandals, a
toothless smile and a voice which rarely rose above a whisper, he
had a disarming humility. He was, if one were to use the famous
words of the Buddha, a man who had “by rousing himself, by
earnestness, by restraint and control, made for himself an island
which no flood could overwhelm.”
Gandhi’s deepest strivings were spiritual, but he did
not — as had been the custom in his country — retire to a cave in
the Himalayas to seek his salvation. He carried his cave within
him. He did not know, he said, any religion apart from human
activity; the spiritual law did not work in a vacuum, but
expressed itself through the ordinary activities of life.
This aspiration to relate the spirit of religion to the
problems of everyday life runs like a thread through Gandhi’s
career: his uneventful childhood, the slow unfolding and the
near-failure of his youth, the reluctant plunge into the politics of
Natal, the long unequal struggle in South Africa, and the
vicissitudes of the Indian struggle for freedom, which under his
leadership was to culminate in a triumph not untinged with
tragedy.
B. R. Nanda. Gandhi: a pictorial biography, 1972 (adapted).
The word “quaint” (second sentence of the second paragraph), in
its use in text 1A2-III, means
Ano: 2023
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Q2324513
Inglês
Texto associado
Text 1A2-III
In January 1948, before three pistol shots put an end to his
life, Gandhi had been on the political stage for more than fifty
years. He had inspired two generations of Indian patriots, shaken
an empire and sparked off a revolution which was to change the
face of Africa and Asia. To millions of his own people, he was
the Mahatma — the great soul — whose sacred glimpse was a
reward in itself.
By the end of 1947 he had lived down much of the
suspicion, ridicule and opposition which he had to face, when he
first raised the banner of revolt against racial exclusiveness and
imperial domination. His ideas, once dismissed as quaint and
utopian, had begun to strike answering chords in some of the
finest minds in the world. “Generations to come, it may be,”
Einstein had said of Gandhi in July 1944, “will scarcely believe
that such a one as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon
earth.”
Though his life had been a continual unfolding of an
endless drama, Gandhi himself seemed the least dramatic of men.
It would be difficult to imagine a man with fewer trappings of
political eminence or with less of the popular image of a heroic
figure. With his loin cloth, steel-rimmed glasses, rough sandals, a
toothless smile and a voice which rarely rose above a whisper, he
had a disarming humility. He was, if one were to use the famous
words of the Buddha, a man who had “by rousing himself, by
earnestness, by restraint and control, made for himself an island
which no flood could overwhelm.”
Gandhi’s deepest strivings were spiritual, but he did
not — as had been the custom in his country — retire to a cave in
the Himalayas to seek his salvation. He carried his cave within
him. He did not know, he said, any religion apart from human
activity; the spiritual law did not work in a vacuum, but
expressed itself through the ordinary activities of life.
This aspiration to relate the spirit of religion to the
problems of everyday life runs like a thread through Gandhi’s
career: his uneventful childhood, the slow unfolding and the
near-failure of his youth, the reluctant plunge into the politics of
Natal, the long unequal struggle in South Africa, and the
vicissitudes of the Indian struggle for freedom, which under his
leadership was to culminate in a triumph not untinged with
tragedy.
B. R. Nanda. Gandhi: a pictorial biography, 1972 (adapted).
The expression “lived down” (first sentence of the second
paragraph of text 1A2-III) means
Ano: 2023
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Q2324512
Inglês
Texto associado
Text 1A2-II
I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper
might be written by any author who would—that is to say, who
could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of
his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why
such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a
loss to say—but, perhaps, the authorial vanity has had more to do
with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets
in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a
species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would
positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the
scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at
the true purposes seized only at the last moment—at the
innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of
full view—at the fully-matured fancies discarded in despair as
unmanageable—at the cautious selections and rejections—at the
painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and
pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the step-ladders, and
demon-traps—the cock’s feathers, the red paint and the black
patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute
the properties of the literary histrio.
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no
means common, in which an author is at all in condition to
retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In
general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and
forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the
repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in
recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my
compositions, and, since the interest of an analysis or
reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite
independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed,
it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to
show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works
was put together. I select The Raven as most generally known. It
is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its
composition is referable either to accident or intuition—that the
work proceeded step by step, to its completion, with the precision
and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.
Edgar Allan Poe. The Philosophy of Composition, 1846 (adapted)
In the third sentence of text 1A2-II, the fragment “shudder at”
can be correctly replaced by
Ano: 2023
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Q2324511
Inglês
Texto associado
Text 1A2-II
I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper
might be written by any author who would—that is to say, who
could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of
his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why
such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a
loss to say—but, perhaps, the authorial vanity has had more to do
with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets
in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a
species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would
positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the
scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at
the true purposes seized only at the last moment—at the
innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of
full view—at the fully-matured fancies discarded in despair as
unmanageable—at the cautious selections and rejections—at the
painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and
pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the step-ladders, and
demon-traps—the cock’s feathers, the red paint and the black
patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute
the properties of the literary histrio.
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no
means common, in which an author is at all in condition to
retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In
general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and
forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the
repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in
recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my
compositions, and, since the interest of an analysis or
reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite
independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed,
it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to
show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works
was put together. I select The Raven as most generally known. It
is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its
composition is referable either to accident or intuition—that the
work proceeded step by step, to its completion, with the precision
and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.
Edgar Allan Poe. The Philosophy of Composition, 1846 (adapted)
In text 1A2-II, Poe affirms that
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Q2324510
Inglês
Texto associado
Text 1A2-II
I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper
might be written by any author who would—that is to say, who
could—detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of
his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why
such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a
loss to say—but, perhaps, the authorial vanity has had more to do
with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets
in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose by a
species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition—and would
positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the
scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at
the true purposes seized only at the last moment—at the
innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of
full view—at the fully-matured fancies discarded in despair as
unmanageable—at the cautious selections and rejections—at the
painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the wheels and
pinions—the tackle for scene-shifting—the step-ladders, and
demon-traps—the cock’s feathers, the red paint and the black
patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, constitute
the properties of the literary histrio.
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no
means common, in which an author is at all in condition to
retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In
general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell are pursued and
forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the
repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in
recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my
compositions, and, since the interest of an analysis or
reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite
independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analysed,
it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to
show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works
was put together. I select The Raven as most generally known. It
is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its
composition is referable either to accident or intuition—that the
work proceeded step by step, to its completion, with the precision
and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.
Edgar Allan Poe. The Philosophy of Composition, 1846 (adapted)
It can be inferred from the ideas of text 1A2-II that