English Reading Comprehension

According to the author, if Billie Holiday had not died in her middle age:

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

Billie Holiday died a few weeks ago. I have been unable until now to write about her, but since she will survive many who receive longer obituaries, a short delay in one small appreciation will not harm her or us. When she died we, the musicians, critics, all who were ever transfixed by the most heart-rending voice of the past generation, grieved bitterly. There was no reason to. Few people pursued self destruction more whole-heartedly than she, and when the pursuit was at an end, at the age of forty-four, she had turned herself into a physical and artistic wreck. Some of us tried gallantly to pretend otherwise, taking comfort in the occasional moments when she still sounded like a ravaged echo of her greatness. Others had not even the heart to see and listen any more. We preferred to stay home and, if old and lucky enough to own the incomparable records of her heyday from 1937 to 1946, many of which are not even available on British LP, to recreate those coarse-textured, sinuous, sensual and unbearable sad noises which gave her a sure corner of immortality. Her physical death called, if anything, for relief rather than sorrow. What sort of middle age would she have faced without the voice to earn money for her drinks and fixes, without the looks, and in her day she was hauntingly beautiful, to attract the men she needed, without business sense, without anything but the disinterested worship of ageing men who had heard and seen her in her glory?
And yet, irrational though it is, our grief expressed Billie Holiday’s art, that of a woman for whom one must be sorry. The great blues singers, to whom she may be justly compared, played their game from strength. Lionesses, though often wounded or at bay (did not Bessie Smith call herself ‘a tiger, ready to jump’?), their tragic equivalents were Cleopatra and Phaedra; Holiday’s was an embittered Ophelia. She was the Puccini heroine among blues singers, or rather among jazz singers. For though she sang a cabaret version of the blues incomparably, her natural idiom was the op song. Her unique achievement was to have twisted this into a genuine expression of the major passions by means of a total disregard of its sugary tunes, or indeed of any tune other than her own few delicately crying elongated notes, phrased like Bessie Smith or Louis Armstrong in sackcloth, sung in a thin, gritty, haunting voice whose natural mood was an unresigned and voluptuous welcome for the pains of love. Nobody has sung, or will sing, Bess’s songs from porgy as she did. It was this combination of bitterness and physical submission, as of someone lying still while watching his legs being amputated, which give such a bloodcurdling quality to her Strange Fruit, the anti-lynching poem which she turned into an unforgettable art song. Suffering was her profession; but she did not accept it.’
Little need be said about her horrifying life, which she described with emotional, though hardly with factual, truth in her autobiography Lady sings the Blues. After an adolescence in which self-respect was measured by a girl’s insistence on picking up the coins thrown to her by clients with her hands, she was plainly beyond help. She did not lack it, for she had the flair and scrupulous honesty of John Hammond to launch her, the best musicians of the 1930s to accompany her, notably Teddy Wilson, Frankie Newton and Lester Young, the boundless devotion of all serious connoisseurs, and much public success. It was too late to arrest a career of systematic embittered self-immolation. But, while she destroyed herself, she sang, unmelodious, profound and heartbreaking. It is impossible not to weep for her, or not to hate the world, which made her what she was.

According to the passage, Billie Holiday was fortunate in all but one of the following ways:

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

Billie Holiday died a few weeks ago. I have been unable until now to write about her, but since she will survive many who receive longer obituaries, a short delay in one small appreciation will not harm her or us. When she died we, the musicians, critics, all who were ever transfixed by the most heart-rending voice of the past generation, grieved bitterly. There was no reason to. Few people pursued self destruction more whole-heartedly than she, and when the pursuit was at an end, at the age of forty-four, she had turned herself into a physical and artistic wreck. Some of us tried gallantly to pretend otherwise, taking comfort in the occasional moments when she still sounded like a ravaged echo of her greatness. Others had not even the heart to see and listen any more. We preferred to stay home and, if old and lucky enough to own the incomparable records of her heyday from 1937 to 1946, many of which are not even available on British LP, to recreate those coarse-textured, sinuous, sensual and unbearable sad noises which gave her a sure corner of immortality. Her physical death called, if anything, for relief rather than sorrow. What sort of middle age would she have faced without the voice to earn money for her drinks and fixes, without the looks, and in her day she was hauntingly beautiful, to attract the men she needed, without business sense, without anything but the disinterested worship of ageing men who had heard and seen her in her glory?
And yet, irrational though it is, our grief expressed Billie Holiday’s art, that of a woman for whom one must be sorry. The great blues singers, to whom she may be justly compared, played their game from strength. Lionesses, though often wounded or at bay (did not Bessie Smith call herself ‘a tiger, ready to jump’?), their tragic equivalents were Cleopatra and Phaedra; Holiday’s was an embittered Ophelia. She was the Puccini heroine among blues singers, or rather among jazz singers. For though she sang a cabaret version of the blues incomparably, her natural idiom was the op song. Her unique achievement was to have twisted this into a genuine expression of the major passions by means of a total disregard of its sugary tunes, or indeed of any tune other than her own few delicately crying elongated notes, phrased like Bessie Smith or Louis Armstrong in sackcloth, sung in a thin, gritty, haunting voice whose natural mood was an unresigned and voluptuous welcome for the pains of love. Nobody has sung, or will sing, Bess’s songs from porgy as she did. It was this combination of bitterness and physical submission, as of someone lying still while watching his legs being amputated, which give such a bloodcurdling quality to her Strange Fruit, the anti-lynching poem which she turned into an unforgettable art song. Suffering was her profession; but she did not accept it.’
Little need be said about her horrifying life, which she described with emotional, though hardly with factual, truth in her autobiography Lady sings the Blues. After an adolescence in which self-respect was measured by a girl’s insistence on picking up the coins thrown to her by clients with her hands, she was plainly beyond help. She did not lack it, for she had the flair and scrupulous honesty of John Hammond to launch her, the best musicians of the 1930s to accompany her, notably Teddy Wilson, Frankie Newton and Lester Young, the boundless devotion of all serious connoisseurs, and much public success. It was too late to arrest a career of systematic embittered self-immolation. But, while she destroyed herself, she sang, unmelodious, profound and heartbreaking. It is impossible not to weep for her, or not to hate the world, which made her what she was.

Why will Billie Holiday survive many who receive longer obituaries?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

Billie Holiday died a few weeks ago. I have been unable until now to write about her, but since she will survive many who receive longer obituaries, a short delay in one small appreciation will not harm her or us. When she died we, the musicians, critics, all who were ever transfixed by the most heart-rending voice of the past generation, grieved bitterly. There was no reason to. Few people pursued self destruction more whole-heartedly than she, and when the pursuit was at an end, at the age of forty-four, she had turned herself into a physical and artistic wreck. Some of us tried gallantly to pretend otherwise, taking comfort in the occasional moments when she still sounded like a ravaged echo of her greatness. Others had not even the heart to see and listen any more. We preferred to stay home and, if old and lucky enough to own the incomparable records of her heyday from 1937 to 1946, many of which are not even available on British LP, to recreate those coarse-textured, sinuous, sensual and unbearable sad noises which gave her a sure corner of immortality. Her physical death called, if anything, for relief rather than sorrow. What sort of middle age would she have faced without the voice to earn money for her drinks and fixes, without the looks, and in her day she was hauntingly beautiful, to attract the men she needed, without business sense, without anything but the disinterested worship of ageing men who had heard and seen her in her glory?
And yet, irrational though it is, our grief expressed Billie Holiday’s art, that of a woman for whom one must be sorry. The great blues singers, to whom she may be justly compared, played their game from strength. Lionesses, though often wounded or at bay (did not Bessie Smith call herself ‘a tiger, ready to jump’?), their tragic equivalents were Cleopatra and Phaedra; Holiday’s was an embittered Ophelia. She was the Puccini heroine among blues singers, or rather among jazz singers. For though she sang a cabaret version of the blues incomparably, her natural idiom was the op song. Her unique achievement was to have twisted this into a genuine expression of the major passions by means of a total disregard of its sugary tunes, or indeed of any tune other than her own few delicately crying elongated notes, phrased like Bessie Smith or Louis Armstrong in sackcloth, sung in a thin, gritty, haunting voice whose natural mood was an unresigned and voluptuous welcome for the pains of love. Nobody has sung, or will sing, Bess’s songs from porgy as she did. It was this combination of bitterness and physical submission, as of someone lying still while watching his legs being amputated, which give such a bloodcurdling quality to her Strange Fruit, the anti-lynching poem which she turned into an unforgettable art song. Suffering was her profession; but she did not accept it.’
Little need be said about her horrifying life, which she described with emotional, though hardly with factual, truth in her autobiography Lady sings the Blues. After an adolescence in which self-respect was measured by a girl’s insistence on picking up the coins thrown to her by clients with her hands, she was plainly beyond help. She did not lack it, for she had the flair and scrupulous honesty of John Hammond to launch her, the best musicians of the 1930s to accompany her, notably Teddy Wilson, Frankie Newton and Lester Young, the boundless devotion of all serious connoisseurs, and much public success. It was too late to arrest a career of systematic embittered self-immolation. But, while she destroyed herself, she sang, unmelodious, profound and heartbreaking. It is impossible not to weep for her, or not to hate the world, which made her what she was.

Which of the following statements is not representative of the author’s opinion?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

Billie Holiday died a few weeks ago. I have been unable until now to write about her, but since she will survive many who receive longer obituaries, a short delay in one small appreciation will not harm her or us. When she died we, the musicians, critics, all who were ever transfixed by the most heart-rending voice of the past generation, grieved bitterly. There was no reason to. Few people pursued self destruction more whole-heartedly than she, and when the pursuit was at an end, at the age of forty-four, she had turned herself into a physical and artistic wreck. Some of us tried gallantly to pretend otherwise, taking comfort in the occasional moments when she still sounded like a ravaged echo of her greatness. Others had not even the heart to see and listen any more. We preferred to stay home and, if old and lucky enough to own the incomparable records of her heyday from 1937 to 1946, many of which are not even available on British LP, to recreate those coarse-textured, sinuous, sensual and unbearable sad noises which gave her a sure corner of immortality. Her physical death called, if anything, for relief rather than sorrow. What sort of middle age would she have faced without the voice to earn money for her drinks and fixes, without the looks, and in her day she was hauntingly beautiful, to attract the men she needed, without business sense, without anything but the disinterested worship of ageing men who had heard and seen her in her glory?
And yet, irrational though it is, our grief expressed Billie Holiday’s art, that of a woman for whom one must be sorry. The great blues singers, to whom she may be justly compared, played their game from strength. Lionesses, though often wounded or at bay (did not Bessie Smith call herself ‘a tiger, ready to jump’?), their tragic equivalents were Cleopatra and Phaedra; Holiday’s was an embittered Ophelia. She was the Puccini heroine among blues singers, or rather among jazz singers. For though she sang a cabaret version of the blues incomparably, her natural idiom was the op song. Her unique achievement was to have twisted this into a genuine expression of the major passions by means of a total disregard of its sugary tunes, or indeed of any tune other than her own few delicately crying elongated notes, phrased like Bessie Smith or Louis Armstrong in sackcloth, sung in a thin, gritty, haunting voice whose natural mood was an unresigned and voluptuous welcome for the pains of love. Nobody has sung, or will sing, Bess’s songs from porgy as she did. It was this combination of bitterness and physical submission, as of someone lying still while watching his legs being amputated, which give such a bloodcurdling quality to her Strange Fruit, the anti-lynching poem which she turned into an unforgettable art song. Suffering was her profession; but she did not accept it.’
Little need be said about her horrifying life, which she described with emotional, though hardly with factual, truth in her autobiography Lady sings the Blues. After an adolescence in which self-respect was measured by a girl’s insistence on picking up the coins thrown to her by clients with her hands, she was plainly beyond help. She did not lack it, for she had the flair and scrupulous honesty of John Hammond to launch her, the best musicians of the 1930s to accompany her, notably Teddy Wilson, Frankie Newton and Lester Young, the boundless devotion of all serious connoisseurs, and much public success. It was too late to arrest a career of systematic embittered self-immolation. But, while she destroyed herself, she sang, unmelodious, profound and heartbreaking. It is impossible not to weep for her, or not to hate the world, which made her what she was.

The author sat peering into the darkness, because

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

I climbed into bed and rolled myself in my blanket, first extinguishing the light that burned steadily near the door. I lay still, trying to get to sleep but my fear made that impossible and soon I sat up in bed peering into the darkness and occasionally glancing at the round window in the side of the ship, which seemed like a plate suspended in the darkness. For an hour, I must have sat like this, and then a draught of cold air suddenly roused me. I jumped out of bed; not having allowed for the motion of the ship, I was instantly thrown violently across the room.

The phrase ‘not having allowed for’ means

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

I climbed into bed and rolled myself in my blanket, first extinguishing the light that burned steadily near the door. I lay still, trying to get to sleep but my fear made that impossible and soon I sat up in bed peering into the darkness and occasionally glancing at the round window in the side of the ship, which seemed like a plate suspended in the darkness. For an hour, I must have sat like this, and then a draught of cold air suddenly roused me. I jumped out of bed; not having allowed for the motion of the ship, I was instantly thrown violently across the room.

Which one of the following did the author do first?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

I climbed into bed and rolled myself in my blanket, first extinguishing the light that burned steadily near the door. I lay still, trying to get to sleep but my fear made that impossible and soon I sat up in bed peering into the darkness and occasionally glancing at the round window in the side of the ship, which seemed like a plate suspended in the darkness. For an hour, I must have sat like this, and then a draught of cold air suddenly roused me. I jumped out of bed; not having allowed for the motion of the ship, I was instantly thrown violently across the room.

The author was thrown across the room because

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

I climbed into bed and rolled myself in my blanket, first extinguishing the light that burned steadily near the door. I lay still, trying to get to sleep but my fear made that impossible and soon I sat up in bed peering into the darkness and occasionally glancing at the round window in the side of the ship, which seemed like a plate suspended in the darkness. For an hour, I must have sat like this, and then a draught of cold air suddenly roused me. I jumped out of bed; not having allowed for the motion of the ship, I was instantly thrown violently across the room.

The author jumped out of bed because

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

I climbed into bed and rolled myself in my blanket, first extinguishing the light that burned steadily near the door. I lay still, trying to get to sleep but my fear made that impossible and soon I sat up in bed peering into the darkness and occasionally glancing at the round window in the side of the ship, which seemed like a plate suspended in the darkness. For an hour, I must have sat like this, and then a draught of cold air suddenly roused me. I jumped out of bed; not having allowed for the motion of the ship, I was instantly thrown violently across the room.

What is the passage most likely to be?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

Marilyn Monroe
For a scene she was shooting for Some Like it Hot in 1959, Marilyn Monroe was supposed to enter a room, walk to a dressing table, rummage through the drawers, find a bottle of bourbon and ask for a drink. She messed up the line no fewer than 47 times in a row – still far from the famously forgetful movie star’s record of 82 takes.
“On the 46th take,” recalled director Billy Wilder, “I told her we had put the line on pieces of paper and they were in a drawer she would open.” Unfortunately, “she went to the wrong piece of furniture.”
Sir John Gielgud The distinguished British actor Sir John Gielgud was dining in a restaurant with a playwright when Gielgud spied someone he thought he recognised. “Did you see that man just coming in?” he asked his companion. “He’s the biggest bore in London, second only to Edward Knoblock.”
At that moment he remembered that Edward Knoblock was in fact the man sitting across from him. “Not you, of course,” Gielgud quickly added. “I mean the other Edward Knoblock.”
Alan Devlin Irish actor Alan Devlin was known for his habit of leaving the stage in a fit of pique in mid performance. On one such occasion, while appearing in HMS Pinafore at the Dublin Gaiety Theatre in 1987, he looked out at the audience and shouted, “I’m going home! Finish it yourself!”

Who was Oliver's original partner?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When Oliver was born, he was such a little thing. He grew into a 45 kg dog, and despite his size, didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He looked strong and fierce to outsiders, but was gentle, clumsy and lovable with us.
When Oliver’s partner - in - crime, Tessa, passed away, he was downcast for a long time. So we decided to buy another dog and got Albert, a little Maltese - cross - Bichon Frise. I was very protective of Albert. As Oliver was so big, I worried he might sit on Albert and squash him.
Eventually we moved to the country, where Oliver and Albert had more freedom. They became the best of friends; I no longer worried about Oliver hurting Albert because he was so gentle and understanding. When we went out, Albert was allowed to come along. This confused Oliver, who couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to sit in the car, too. Albert was allowed in the house, but because of his size, Oliver was not. He sat on the doorstep and watched from there.
One day we arrived home with Albert sitting in the front seat of the car. I opened the door and in jumped Oliver, who squashed on top of us. We all had a great laugh, and I’m sure Oliver was embarrassed.

What confused Oliver sometimes?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When Oliver was born, he was such a little thing. He grew into a 45 kg dog, and despite his size, didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He looked strong and fierce to outsiders, but was gentle, clumsy and lovable with us.
When Oliver’s partner - in - crime, Tessa, passed away, he was downcast for a long time. So we decided to buy another dog and got Albert, a little Maltese - cross - Bichon Frise. I was very protective of Albert. As Oliver was so big, I worried he might sit on Albert and squash him.
Eventually we moved to the country, where Oliver and Albert had more freedom. They became the best of friends; I no longer worried about Oliver hurting Albert because he was so gentle and understanding. When we went out, Albert was allowed to come along. This confused Oliver, who couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to sit in the car, too. Albert was allowed in the house, but because of his size, Oliver was not. He sat on the doorstep and watched from there.
One day we arrived home with Albert sitting in the front seat of the car. I opened the door and in jumped Oliver, who squashed on top of us. We all had a great laugh, and I’m sure Oliver was embarrassed.

What was the record number of takes which Marilyn Monroe had taken.

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

Marilyn Monroe
For a scene she was shooting for Some Like it Hot in 1959, Marilyn Monroe was supposed to enter a room, walk to a dressing table, rummage through the drawers, find a bottle of bourbon and ask for a drink. She messed up the line no fewer than 47 times in a row – still far from the famously forgetful movie star’s record of 82 takes.
“On the 46th take,” recalled director Billy Wilder, “I told her we had put the line on pieces of paper and they were in a drawer she would open.” Unfortunately, “she went to the wrong piece of furniture.”
Sir John Gielgud The distinguished British actor Sir John Gielgud was dining in a restaurant with a playwright when Gielgud spied someone he thought he recognised. “Did you see that man just coming in?” he asked his companion. “He’s the biggest bore in London, second only to Edward Knoblock.”
At that moment he remembered that Edward Knoblock was in fact the man sitting across from him. “Not you, of course,” Gielgud quickly added. “I mean the other Edward Knoblock.”
Alan Devlin Irish actor Alan Devlin was known for his habit of leaving the stage in a fit of pique in mid performance. On one such occasion, while appearing in HMS Pinafore at the Dublin Gaiety Theatre in 1987, he looked out at the audience and shouted, “I’m going home! Finish it yourself!”

Why must have Oliver been embarrassed?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

When Oliver was born, he was such a little thing. He grew into a 45 kg dog, and despite his size, didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He looked strong and fierce to outsiders, but was gentle, clumsy and lovable with us.
When Oliver’s partner - in - crime, Tessa, passed away, he was downcast for a long time. So we decided to buy another dog and got Albert, a little Maltese - cross - Bichon Frise. I was very protective of Albert. As Oliver was so big, I worried he might sit on Albert and squash him.
Eventually we moved to the country, where Oliver and Albert had more freedom. They became the best of friends; I no longer worried about Oliver hurting Albert because he was so gentle and understanding. When we went out, Albert was allowed to come along. This confused Oliver, who couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to sit in the car, too. Albert was allowed in the house, but because of his size, Oliver was not. He sat on the doorstep and watched from there.
One day we arrived home with Albert sitting in the front seat of the car. I opened the door and in jumped Oliver, who squashed on top of us. We all had a great laugh, and I’m sure Oliver was embarrassed.

What idiosyncrasy did Alan Devlin have?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

Marilyn Monroe
For a scene she was shooting for Some Like it Hot in 1959, Marilyn Monroe was supposed to enter a room, walk to a dressing table, rummage through the drawers, find a bottle of bourbon and ask for a drink. She messed up the line no fewer than 47 times in a row – still far from the famously forgetful movie star’s record of 82 takes.
“On the 46th take,” recalled director Billy Wilder, “I told her we had put the line on pieces of paper and they were in a drawer she would open.” Unfortunately, “she went to the wrong piece of furniture.”
Sir John Gielgud The distinguished British actor Sir John Gielgud was dining in a restaurant with a playwright when Gielgud spied someone he thought he recognised. “Did you see that man just coming in?” he asked his companion. “He’s the biggest bore in London, second only to Edward Knoblock.”
At that moment he remembered that Edward Knoblock was in fact the man sitting across from him. “Not you, of course,” Gielgud quickly added. “I mean the other Edward Knoblock.”
Alan Devlin Irish actor Alan Devlin was known for his habit of leaving the stage in a fit of pique in mid performance. On one such occasion, while appearing in HMS Pinafore at the Dublin Gaiety Theatre in 1987, he looked out at the audience and shouted, “I’m going home! Finish it yourself!”