(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.The word "behemoth" in Paragraph 5 means something () .

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.The phrase "give you the finger" in Paragraph 6 means () .

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.The car driver broke one of the windshield wipers () .

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.According to Paragraph 8, the car driver rammed the bus in vain because () .

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.The author felt that the bus driver's behavior in Paragraph 9 was () .

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.The questions in Paragraph 10 intend to show that () .

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.What is the author's attitude towards the "Rambo pattern" in Paragraph 11 ?

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.The word "cramps" in Paragraph 11 means () .

(1) The car pulled up and its driver glared at us with such sullen intensity, such hatred, that I was truly afraid for our lives.He looked like the sort of young man who might kill a president.(2)He was glaring because we had passed him and for that offensive action he pursued us to the next stoplight so as to express his indignation and affirm his masculinity.I was with two women and was afraid for all three of us.It was nearly midnight and we were in a small, sleeping town with no other cars on the road.(3)When the light turned green I raced ahead.He didn't merely follow, he chased, and with his headlights turned off.No matter what sudden turn I took, he followed.My passengers were silent.I knew they were alarmed, and I prayed that I wouldn't be called upon to protect them.In that cheerful frame of mind, I turned off my own lights so I couldn't be followed.It was madness.I was responding to a crazy as a crazy.(4) "I'll just drive to the police station," I finally said, and as if those were the magic words, he disappeared.(5) It seems to me that there has recently been an epidemic of auto macho () a competition perceived and expressed in driving.People fight it out over parking spaces.A toll booth becomes a signal for elbowing fenders.And beetle-eyed drivers hunch over their steering wheels, squeezing the rims, glowering, preparing the excuse of not having seen you as they muscle you off the road.Approaching a highway on an entrance ramp recently, I was strong-armed by a trailer truck so immense that its driver all but blew me away by blasting his horn.The behemoth was just inches from my hopelesslymismatched vehicle when I fled for the safety of the shoulder.(6) The odd thing is that long before I was even able to drive, it seemed to me that people were at their finest and most civilized when in their cars.They seemed so orderly and considerate, so reasonable, staying in the right-hand lane unless passing, signaling all intentions.In those days you really eased into highway traffic, and the long, neat rows of cars seemed mobile testimony to the sanity of most people.Perhaps memory fails, perhaps there were always testy drivers, perhaps--but everyone didn't give you the finger.(7) A most amazing example of driver rage occurred recently in Manhattan.We were four cars abreast, stopped at a traffic light.And there was no moving even when the light had changed.A bus had () stopped in the cross traffic, blocking our paths: it was normal-for-New-York-City gridlock.Perhaps impatient, perhaps late for important appointments, three of us nonetheless accepted what, after all, we could not alter.One, however, would not.He would not be helpless.He would go where he was going even if he couldn't get there.He got out of his car and strode toward the bus, rapping smartly on its doors.When they opened, he exchanged words with the driver.The doors folded shut.He then stepped in front of the bus, took hold of one of its large windshield wipers and broke it.(8)The bus doors reopened and the driver appeared, apparently giving the fellow a good piece of his mind.If so, the lecture was wasted, for the man started his car and drove directly into the bus.He rammed it.Even though the point at which he struck the bus, the folding doors, was its most vulnerable point, ramming the side of a bus with your car has to rank very high on a futility index.My first thought was that it had to be a rental car.(9) To tell the truth, I could not believe my eyes.The bus driver opened his doors as much as they could be opened and he stepped directly onto the hood of the attacking car, jumping up and down with both his feet.He then retreated into the bus, closing the doors behind him.Obviously a man of action, the cardriver backed up and rammed the bus again.(10) It is tempting to blame such aggressive, uncivil and even neurotic behavior, but in our cars we all become a little crazy.How many of us speed up when a driver signals his intention of pulling in front of us? Are we resentful and anxious to pass him? How many of us try to squeeze in, or race along theshoulder at a lane merger?(11) What is it within us that gives birth to such antisocial behavior and why, all of a sudden, have so many drivers gone around the bend? My friend, a Manhattan psychiatrist, calls it "a Rambo pattern.People are running around thinking the American way is to take the law into your own hands whenanyone does anything wrong.And what constitutes 'wrong'? Anything that cramps your style."(12)It seems to me that it is a new America we see on the road now.It has the mentality of a hoodlum and the backbone of a coward.The car is its weapon and hiding place, and it is still a symbol even in this.Road Rambos no longer represent a self-reliant, civil people tooling around in family cruisers.In fact,there aren't families in these machines that charge headlong with their brights on in broad daylight, demanding we get out of their way.Bullies are loners, and they have perverted our liberty of the open road into drivers' license.They represent an America that derides the values of decency and good manners, then roam the highways riding shotgun and shrieking freedom.By allowing this to happen, the rest of us approve.The purpose of the author in writing this essay is () .

The child was fairly eating me up with her cold, steady eyes, and no expression on her face whatever. She did not move and seemed, inwardly, (1) ; an unusually attractive little thing, and as strong as a heifer in (2) . But her face was flushed, she was breathing. (3) , and I realized that she had a high fever. She had magnificent (4) hair, in profusion. One of those picture children often reproduced in (5) leaflets and the photogravure sections of the Sunday papers.It is still women--about three million volunteers--who do most of this work in the American political world. The best any of (6) can hope for is the honor of being district or county vice-chairman, a kind of separate-but-equal position with which a woman is (7) for years of faithful envelope stuffing and card-party (8) . In such a job, she gets a number of free trips to state and (9) national meetings and conventions, where her (10) is supposed to be to vote the way her male chairman votes.The value of art-snobbery to living artists is considerable. True, most art-snobs (11) only the works of the dead; for an Old Master is both a (12) investment and a holier culture-symbol than a (13) master. But some art-snobs are also modernity-snobs. There are (14) of them, with the few eccentrics who like works of art for their own (15) , to provide living artists with the means of subsistence.Without thinking, we are making animportant confession about ourselves as a nation. We are (16) qualityeven, to some extent, the quality of people. The "best" is becoming too (17) for us. We are suckling (18) on machine-made mediocrity. It is bad for our souls, our minds, and our digestion. It is the (19) our wiser and calmer forebears (20) , not people, but hogs: as much as possible and as fast as possible, with no standard of quality.There is a difference between my schooling and the wisdom of the street comer. I (21) the life of a black man in Watts is larger than a federal (22) program. If there is no future for the black ghetto, the future of all Negroes is (23) What affects it, affects me, for I am a (24) of the ghetto. When they do it to Watts, they do it to me, too. I'll never escape from the ghetto. I have (25) my all on its future. Watts is my home.A.goodB.stakedC.rapidlyD.organizingE.livingF.enoughG.saferH.ourselvesI.fedJ.diminishedK.childL.appearanceM.themN.sometimesO.sakeP.abandoningQ.povertyR.rewardedS.blondeT.collectU.advertisingV.quietW.wayX.knowY.role