English Reading Comprehension

The tattoos, according to the prisoner's ultimate opinion, show that the prisoner

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

That Arkady Bronnikov has done exhaustive research on the topic is evident from which of the following phrases used by the author?

I. fistful of black and white photos II. had access to thousands of prisoners III. overstuffed valise IV. 20,000 photos and published books

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

Those convicts who are voluntarily tattooed include

I. prisoners in labour camps II. women convicts III. insulted men IV. burglars

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

Bronnikov managed to collect so much information regarding tattoos because of all of the following factors, except

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

From the tattoos etched on the body of the convict, one can identify

I. the prisons that he has been in II. the crimes committed by him III. his position in the hierarchy of convict life IV. the sentence served by him

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

Which of the following statements best expresses the main idea of the passage?

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

Which of the following questions cannot be answered by reading the passage?

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

Mysnik's statement "One way or the other, you get nailed" would mean

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

Arkady Bronnikov pulls out a fistful of black and white photos from his overstuffed valise and, like a proud parent, passes them around.
This one's my favourite. The work on him is really artistic, Mr. Bronnikov says admiringly of the snapshot in his hand.
The photograph shows a Russian convict bald, and naked to the waist. To the delight of Mr. Bronnikov, the man's torso is covered with tattoos.
As Russia's leading expert on tattoo iconography, Mr. Bronnikov can tell the prisoner's story from looking at the designs on his body. The huge spider in a web that is drawn on his skull reveals, in prison tattoo code, that he is a drug addict. Also, he is a repeat offender: The onion domes of a Russian church fan across his shoulder blades, each of the seven cupolas representing a different stay in prison. Above the church, across the back of his neck, the convict has stencilled, in Russian, "Not just anyone can hold his head this high".
He's the pakhan, the king of thieves in his prison, Mr. Bronnikov explains.
For nearly 30 years, Mr. Bronnikov, a criminologist, has analysed the language of tattoos among Soviet convicts. As a colonel in the secretive Interior Ministry, Mr. Bronnikov had access to thousands of prisoners in remote labour camps. Nearly everybody who does time gets tattooed (women, too, but less elaborately). Most are tattooed voluntarily. Forcibly tattooed are the so-called insulted men who have been raped in prison.
Across Russia and in the other former Soviet republics, convicts use the same symbols. The images document the prisoner's crimes, sentences and, most importantly, his position in the rigid hierarchy that runs convict life and, in some cases, the prisons, themselves.
The more tattoos a convict gets, the more sentences he has served, the more respect he gets in prison, says the 66-year old Mr. Bronnikov. The tattoos show that he isn't afraid of pain.
When Mr. Bronikov began as a criminologist in the late 1950s, he was struck by the blue and black symbols turning up on suspects and, occasionally, on an unidentified corpse. As a hobby, he started collecting photographs of such tattoos. The avocation quickly became a subject of scholarship.
Working in the Perm region, Mr. Bronnikov was virtually surrounded by thugs. This Ural province is the penal capital of the former Soviet Union, with more than 30 labour camps and a convict population exceeding 100,000. As a lecturer at the regional police academy, Mr. Bronnikov persuaded his students, many of them prison wardens, to provide him with photos of the best tattoos in their camps.
Mr. Bronnikov now has more than 20,000 photos and has published books on what they mean. He has helped solve criminal cases around the country by studying tattoos to identify culprits and corpses. In the mid 1970s, Mr. Bronnikov assisted in the search for a child molester in the Volga town of Yeshevsk. One of the man's victims recalled markings on the criminal's hands and chest that suggested to police he was an ex-convict. A young girl's description and the telltale tattoos got the suspect nabbed quickly and then convicted.
Although 17^th century Russian courts favoured branding and tattooing the faces of criminals, Soviet prisoners began to tattoo one another in the 1950s. Discreet symbols on the chest and shoulder have evolved into elabourate murals, with prisoners sporting hundreds of drawings on their bodies.
Interned in Correctional Labour Colony 29 on the outskirts of Prem, Andrei Mysnik is serving a 15 year sentence for killing a policeman in Leningrad in 1981. As an old-timer in the zone, the vast network of labour camps, Mr. Mysnik has an impressive array of tattoos.
He opens his fist and points to two rows of tattoos etched across his knuckles. The beetle is a good luck charm in burglary, the 30-year old Mr. Mysnik's speciality. The black and white diamond indicates that Mr. Mysnik has spend half his life in prison. As he looks down to explain the images, the words do not wake become visible; they are tattooed on his eyelids.
Mr. Mysnik's favourite tattoo extends across his slender back: a prehistoric scene, with pterodactyls and tar pits and, in the middle, a dinosaur biting another on the neck. "This is the criminal world to me", Mr. Mysnik says. One way or the other, you get nailed.
Still, the pain does deter even the most macho convict from covering his body, all at once, with meaningful pictures. Tattoos are created by instilling pigment in the skin with thousands of needle pricks. In the camps, the process can take anywhere from a few hours to a few years, depending on the artist and his ambition, says Mr. Bronnikov. Because of prison conditions, tattoo artists have to improvise with materials and equipment. For instance, they will draw a picture on a wooden plank, place needles along the lines of the design, cover the needles with ink and stamp the whole tableau on the prisoner's body. Another method is to slice the image onto the skin with a razor and daub that cut with indelible ink.

When the author says of Steger that he is almost blasé when he describes adversity, he means by the highlighted word

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

That's the way it is with explorers: any reason will do. They are, after all, no ordinary mortals. They are obsessed, fiercely competitive, driving themselves to reach beyond the last barrier into the untravelled world, or to do their predecessors one better, to live to tell the world what they have seen, and not incidentally, to enjoy triumph and glory.
Hardly any place on the surface of the earth remains to be discovered, let alone mapped, prodded, examined and analysed, yet explorers persist in pushing at frontiers. Italy's Reinhold Messner, 48, the first man ever to climb all 14 of the world's 8,000-plus-metre peaks - he did it without using oxygen equipment - also made the first solo oxygen-free ascent of Mount Everest and walked across Antarctica. Germany's Arved Fuchs, 39, hiked to both Poles in a single year, rounded Cape Horn in a collapsible boat, explored Greenland and the Canadian Arctic - to name only a few of his exploits.
France's Philippe Frey, 35, courted death when he travelled 9,000 km across the Sahara from the Red Sea to the Atlantic Ocean in 1991. Working from outdated maps (which eventually got blown away by the wind), he plowed through the desert for nine agonising months. One after another, the wells that were marked on the map turned out dry. He had two camels; his water supply was down to five litres. Just as he was preparing to slit a camel's throat to drink its blood and stomach juices, two nomads appeared and directed him to an unmarked well 20 km away. Last year, the Club des Explorateurs et Voyageurs awarded Frey its Prix Liotard for exploration.
Among Americans, the leading explorer is Will Steger, 48, for whom happiness is going into an area that's never been visited before, an area where the sounds and the sights are foreign to human eyes. In 1986 Steger led the first confirmed expedition to reach the North Pole by traveling across the ice, and in 1989-90 made the first dogsled crossing of Antarctica. Typically, he is almost blasé when he described adversity. People are side-tracked by the suffering, by the cold, he says. it's fascinating for them the idea of going to the bathroom outdoors at 500 below zero. They imagine the hardships of cold, but it's not really much. It's just physical, temporary. But if you make a mistake, you die.
A fellow Minneston, schoolteacher Ann Bancroft, 37, is the first woman ever to reach the North Pole by dogsled (with Steger in 1986). Last November she set out with three other women to ski across Antarctica, reached the South Pole, then had to withdraw in mid-January when weather delays upset their schedule.
Californian Sylvia Earle, 57, prefers to study the last truly unexplored region on earth: the bottom of the sea. A marine biologist, she has clocked 6,000 hours underwater (That doesn't include time in the shower, she jokes) and holds the record for reaching the greatest depth - 381 m - ever attained by an untethered diver.
She has swum in the Indian Ocean with thousands of bioluminescent fish, dived in water so clear that from 30 m below the surface she could see the moon and stars; in the Pacific she has felt her body resonate with the vibrations of communicating whales- like being in a cathedral with otherworldly music. Most of the planet, she says, has yet to be explored. In the deep sea, less than one-tenth of 1% has even been looked at, and much of it has been mapped only in the most general way. Earle hopes to build a high-tech underwater craft that will take her to 11,000 m, the ocean's deepest depths.
It is the British, following centuries of tradition, who hold a special place in the chronicles of spectacular explorations. In a half-serious lexicon of Great British Things We Can Be Proud Of, London's Evening Standard recently listed Outwardness. From Sloaney grannies batting through the Hindu Kush in hire cars to lone seafarers circumnavigating the globe in sherry casks, the British are famously outward-looking.
Five hundred expeditions of dazzling variety and frequently exotic destinations, in fact, leave Britain's shores every year. Some are supported by public or private subscription, some by the Royal Geographical Society, others by sympathetic corporations.
They are costly investments and usually lose money. Britain's Robert Swan, who raised $3.5 million for a journey to the South Pole in 1984, retraced Robert Scott's 1911-12, 1,450-km route unassisted and in 1989 walked the 750-km from Ellesmere Island to the North Pole. Swan is still more than $ 100,000 in debt; his only consolation is that some of his famous predecessors - notably Sir Ernest Shackleton - died penniless.

In this passage, the author is discussing

Directions: Read the following passsage and answer the given question.

That's the way it is with explorers: any reason will do. They are, after all, no ordinary mortals. They are obsessed, fiercely competitive, driving themselves to reach beyond the last barrier into the untravelled world, or to do their predecessors one better, to live to tell the world what they have seen, and not incidentally, to enjoy triumph and glory.
Hardly any place on the surface of the earth remains to be discovered, let alone mapped, prodded, examined and analysed, yet explorers persist in pushing at frontiers. Italy's Reinhold Messner, 48, the first man ever to climb all 14 of the world's 8,000-plus-metre peaks - he did it without using oxygen equipment - also made the first solo oxygen-free ascent of Mount Everest and walked across Antarctica. Germany's Arved Fuchs, 39, hiked to both Poles in a single year, rounded Cape Horn in a collapsible boat, explored Greenland and the Canadian Arctic - to name only a few of his exploits.
France's Philippe Frey, 35, courted death when he travelled 9,000 km across the Sahara from the Red Sea to the Atlantic Ocean in 1991. Working from outdated maps (which eventually got blown away by the wind), he plowed through the desert for nine agonising months. One after another, the wells that were marked on the map turned out dry. He had two camels; his water supply was down to five litres. Just as he was preparing to slit a camel's throat to drink its blood and stomach juices, two nomads appeared and directed him to an unmarked well 20 km away. Last year, the Club des Explorateurs et Voyageurs awarded Frey its Prix Liotard for exploration.
Among Americans, the leading explorer is Will Steger, 48, for whom happiness is going into an area that's never been visited before, an area where the sounds and the sights are foreign to human eyes. In 1986 Steger led the first confirmed expedition to reach the North Pole by traveling across the ice, and in 1989-90 made the first dogsled crossing of Antarctica. Typically, he is almost blasé when he described adversity. People are side-tracked by the suffering, by the cold, he says. it's fascinating for them the idea of going to the bathroom outdoors at 500 below zero. They imagine the hardships of cold, but it's not really much. It's just physical, temporary. But if you make a mistake, you die.
A fellow Minneston, schoolteacher Ann Bancroft, 37, is the first woman ever to reach the North Pole by dogsled (with Steger in 1986). Last November she set out with three other women to ski across Antarctica, reached the South Pole, then had to withdraw in mid-January when weather delays upset their schedule.
Californian Sylvia Earle, 57, prefers to study the last truly unexplored region on earth: the bottom of the sea. A marine biologist, she has clocked 6,000 hours underwater (That doesn't include time in the shower, she jokes) and holds the record for reaching the greatest depth - 381 m - ever attained by an untethered diver.
She has swum in the Indian Ocean with thousands of bioluminescent fish, dived in water so clear that from 30 m below the surface she could see the moon and stars; in the Pacific she has felt her body resonate with the vibrations of communicating whales- like being in a cathedral with otherworldly music. Most of the planet, she says, has yet to be explored. In the deep sea, less than one-tenth of 1% has even been looked at, and much of it has been mapped only in the most general way. Earle hopes to build a high-tech underwater craft that will take her to 11,000 m, the ocean's deepest depths.
It is the British, following centuries of tradition, who hold a special place in the chronicles of spectacular explorations. In a half-serious lexicon of Great British Things We Can Be Proud Of, London's Evening Standard recently listed Outwardness. From Sloaney grannies batting through the Hindu Kush in hire cars to lone seafarers circumnavigating the globe in sherry casks, the British are famously outward-looking.
Five hundred expeditions of dazzling variety and frequently exotic destinations, in fact, leave Britain's shores every year. Some are supported by public or private subscription, some by the Royal Geographical Society, others by sympathetic corporations.
They are costly investments and usually lose money. Britain's Robert Swan, who raised $3.5 million for a journey to the South Pole in 1984, retraced Robert Scott's 1911-12, 1,450-km route unassisted and in 1989 walked the 750-km from Ellesmere Island to the North Pole. Swan is still more than $ 100,000 in debt; his only consolation is that some of his famous predecessors - notably Sir Ernest Shackleton - died penniless.

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

PassageThe explanation of the mystery was really simple enough. The bewildered boys had been following a scientist who had just discovered how to make the human body transparent. Griffin, the scientist, had carried out some experiment after experiment to prove that the human body could become invisible. Finally when he swallowed certain rare drugs and his body became as transparent as a sheet of glass. Griffin was also a lawless person. He once set fire to his landlord's house. To get away without being seen he had to remove his clothes. Then he became a homeless wanderer, without clothes, without money but quite invisible until he happened to step in some mud and left footprints as he walked.

Which one of the following four statements about Griffin is true?

Directions: Read the following passage and answer the question that follows. Passage The two boys started in surprise at the fresh muddy imprints of a pair of bare feet. What was a barefooted man doing on the steps of a house, in the middle of London? And where was the man? As they gazed, a remarkable sight met their eyes. A fresh footmark appeared from nowhere! Further footprints followed, one after another descending the steps and progressing down the street. The boys followed, fascinated, until the muddy impressions became fainter and fainter and at last disappeared altogether.

Which one of the following statements is true?

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

Passage The two boys started in surprise at the fresh muddy imprints of a pair of bare feet. What was a barefooted man doing on the steps of a house, in the middle of London? And where was the man? As they gazed, a remarkable sight met their eyes. A fresh footmark appeared from nowhere! Further footprints followed, one after another descending the steps and progressing down the street. The boys followed, fascinated, until the muddy impressions became fainter and fainter and at last disappeared altogether.

Where did the two boys see the fresh muddy footprints?

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

PassageThe explanation of the mystery was really simple enough. The bewildered boys had been following a scientist who had just discovered how to make the human body transparent. Griffin, the scientist, had carried out some experiment after experiment to prove that the human body could become invisible. Finally when he swallowed certain rare drugs and his body became as transparent as a sheet of glass. Griffin was also a lawless person. He once set fire to his landlord's house. To get away without being seen he had to remove his clothes. Then he became a homeless wanderer, without clothes, without money but quite invisible until he happened to step in some mud and left footprints as he walked.

Which one of the following four statements about Griffin is NOT true?