2020年6月ACT回顧

2020年 6 月 ACT 考題回顧:所有 4 篇閱讀文章!

過去這個週末學生考了 2020 年 6 月的 ACT 考試。如果這是你最後一次考 ACT,恭喜你完成了一個艱難的任務!

我們整理了 2020 年 6 月 ACT 考試當中的 4 篇閱讀文章,幫助學生準備未來的考試。


這些閱讀文章可以如何的幫助你?

1. 這些文章可以讓你知道你的英文程度以及準備考試的程度

首先,讀這些文章。你覺得他們讀起來很簡單還是很難?裡面有沒有很多生字,尤其是那些會影響你理解整篇文章的生字?如果有的話,雖然你可能是在美國讀書或讀國際學校、也知道 “如何讀跟寫英文”,但你還沒有足夠的生字基礎讓你 “達到下一個階段” (也就是大學的階段)。查一下這一些字,然後把它們背起來。這些生字不見得會在下一個 ACT 考試中出現,但是透過真正的 ACT 閱讀文章去認識及學習這些生字可以大大的減低考試中出現不會的生字的機率。

2. 這些文章會告訴你平時應該要讀哪些文章幫你準備閱讀考試

在我們的 Ivy-Way Reading Workbook(Ivy-Way 閱讀技巧書)的第一章節裡,我們教學生在閱讀文章之前要先讀文章最上面的開頭介紹。雖然你的 ACT 考試不會剛好考這幾篇文章,但你還是可以透過這些文章找到它們的來源,然後從來源閱讀更多相關的文章。閱讀更多來自這些地方的文章會幫助你習慣閱讀這種風格的文章。

3. 這些文章會幫助你發掘閱讀單元的技巧(如果閱讀單元對你來說不是特別簡單的話)

如果你覺得閱讀單元很簡單,或是你在做完之後還有剩幾分鐘可以檢查,那麼這個技巧可能就對你來說沒有特別大的幫助。但是,如果你覺得閱讀很難,或者你常常不夠時間做題,一個很好的技巧是先理解那一種的文章對你來說比較難,然後最後做這一篇文章。ACT 的閱讀文章包含這五種類型:

  • 社會研究:人類學,考古學,傳記,商業,經濟,教育,地理,歷史,政治學,心理學和社會學。
  • 自然科學:解剖學,天文學,生物學,植物學,化學,生態學,地質學,醫學,氣象學,微生物學,自然史,生理學,物理學,技術和動物學。
  • 散文小說:短篇小說或短篇小說的摘錄。
  • 人文:回憶錄和個人散文,以及建築,藝術,舞蹈,倫理,電影,語言,文學批評,音樂,哲學,廣播,電視和戲劇等內容領域。

舉例來說,假設你覺得跟美國獨立相關的文章是你在做連續的時候覺得最難的種類,那你在考試的時候可以考慮使用的技巧之一是把這篇文章留到最後再做。這樣一來,如果你在考試到最後時間不夠了,你還是可以從其他比較簡單文章中盡量拿分。


所有 2020年 6月 ACT 考試閱讀文章

Passage 1

This passage is adapted from the article ‘Trading Stoner by Jhumpa Lahiri (©2011 by Condo Nast). 

        Books, and the stories they contained, were the

only things I felt I was able to possess as a child. Even

then, the possession was not literal; my father is a

librarian, and perhaps because he believed in collective

property, I had almost no books to call my own.

         Our house was not devoid of things to read, but the

offerings felt scant. There were books about China and

Russia. My mother owned novels and short stories and

stacks of a literary magazine called Desh, but they were

in Bengali. I craved a house where books were a solid

presence, piled on every surface and cheerfully lining

the walls. 
        What I really sought was a better-marked trail of

my parents’ intellectual lives: bound and printed evidence

of what had inspired and shaped their minds.

A connection, via books, between them and me. But my

parents did not read to me or tell me stories; my father

did not read any fiction, and the stories my mother may

have loved as a young girl in Calcutta were not passed

down. 
        Bengali was my first language, what I spoke and

heard at home. But the books of my childhood were in

English, and their subjects, for the most part, were

either English or American lives. I was aware of a feel-

ing of trespassing; I was aware that I did not belong to

the worlds I was reading about: that different food

graced our table, that different holidays were celebrated.

And yet when a book was in my possession, this

didn’t matter. 
        As a young girl, I was afraid to participate in

social activities. I was worried about what others might

make of me. But when I read I was free of this worry. I

learned what my fictional companions ate and wore,

about the toys scattered in their rooms, the vacations

they took, the jams their mothers stirred on the stove.

For me, the act of reading was one of discovery in the

most basic sense—the discovery of a culture that was

foreign to my parents. 
        When I began to make friends, writing was the

vehicle. I did not write alone but with another student

in my class. We would sit together, dreaming up characters

and plots, taking turns writing sections of the story.

The stories were transparent riffs on what I was reading

at the time: families living on prairies, orphaned girls

sent off to boarding schools, children with supernatural

powers. 
        As I grew into adolescence and beyond, however,

my writing shrank. Though the compulsion to invent

stories remained, self-doubt began to undermine it.

What I loved at seven became, by seventeen, the form

of self-expression that most intimidated me. At twenty-

one, the writer in me was like a fly in the room—alive

but insignificant, aimless, something that unsettled me

whenever I grew aware of it.

        After I graduated from college, I moved to Boston

and formed a close friendship with a young woman

whose father is a poet named Bill Corbctt. I began to

visit the Corbetts’ home, which was filled with books

and art. I saw the desk where Bill wrote, obscured by

manuscripts, letters, and proofs. I saw that the work

taking place on this desk was obliged to no one, connected

to no institution; that this desk was an island. I

spent a summer pecking out sketches and fragments on

a typewriter.

        I began to want to be a writer. Secretly at first,

exchanging pages with one other person, our prescheduled

meetings forcing me to sit down and produce something.

         I worked up the nerve to apply for a formal spot in

a creative-writing program. When I told my parents that

I’d been accepted, with a fellowship, they neither

encouraged nor discouraged me. Like so many aspects

of my American life, the idea that one could get a

degree in creative writing, that it could be a legitimate

course of study, seemed perhaps frivolous to them.

        As a child, I had written to connect with my peers.

But when I started writing stories again, in my twenties,

my parents were the people I was struggling to reach.

In 1992, just before starting the writing program, I went

to Calcutta with my family. I remember coming back at

the end of summer and almost immediately writing the

first of the stories I submitted that year in workshop. It

was set in the building where my mother had grown up,

and where I spent much of my time when I was in

India. I see now that my impulse to write this story was

to prove something to any parents: that I understood, in

a limited but precise way. the world they came from.

        For much of my life, I wanted to belong to a place,

either the one my parents came from or to America.

When I became a writer my desk became home; there

was no need for another. I belong to my work. to my

characters.


Passage 2

This passage is adaplecl from the book Brave Companions: Portraits in History by David McCullough (©1992 by David McCullough). 

        It was not long after the completion of the Panama

Railroad in 1855 that Bedford Clapperton Pim declared

with perfect composure that of all the world’s wonders

none could surpass this one as a demonstration of

man’s capacity to do great things against impossible

odds. 
        “I have seen the greatest engineering works of the

day,” he wrote, “… but I must confess that when pass-

ing backwards and forwards on the Panama Railway,

I have never been more struck than with the evidence,

apparent on every side, of the wonderful skill,

endurance, and perseverance, which must have been

exercised in its construction.” 
        Bedford Clapperton Pim was a British naval officer

and of no particular historical significance. He had,

however, seen a great deal of the world, he was a recognized

authority on Central America, and his opinion

was not lightly arrived at.

        It should be kept in mind that the first railroads, all

very primitive, had been built in Europe and the United

States only some twenty years before. France was still

virtually without railroads; not a rail had been put down

west of the Mississippi as yet. Moreover, such awesome

technological strides as the Suez Canal, the Union

Pacific, and the Brooklyn Bridge were still well in the

future. And so the vision of locomotives highballing

through the green half-light of some distant rain forest,

of the world’s two greatest oceans joined by good

English-made rails, could stir the blood to an

exceptional degree.

        The Panama Railroad was begun in 1850, at the

height of the California gold craze. And by anyone’s

standards it was a stunning demonstration of man’s

“wonderful skill, endurance, and perseverance.” just as

Pim said. even though its full length was only forty-

seven and a half miles. It was, for example, the first

ocean-to-ocean railroad. Mile for mile it also appears to

have cost more in dollars and in human life than any

railroad ever built. 
        The surveys made by its builders produced important

geographic revelations that had a direct bearing on

the decision to build a Panama canal along the same

route. In addition, the diplomatic agreement upon

which the whole venture rested, the so-called Bidlack

Treaty of 1846, was the basis of all subsequent

involvement of the United States in Panama. 
        Still, the simple fact that it was built remains the

overriding wonder, given the astonishing difficulties

that had to be overcome and the means at hand in the

1850s. Present-day engineers who have had experience

in jungle construction wonder how in the world it was

ever managed. I think in particular of David S. Parker, 
an eminent army engineer whom I interviewed at the

time he was governor of the Canal Zone. Through a

great sweep of glass behind him, as we talked, were the

distant hills of Panama, no different in appearance than

they ever were. II is almost inconceivable, he said, that

the railroad survey—just the survey—could have been

made by a comparative handful of men who had no

proper equipment for topographic reconnaissance (no

helicopters, no recourse to aerial photography), no

modern medicines. nor the lent understanding of the

causes of malaria or yellow fever. There was no such

thing as an insect repellent, no bulldozers. no chain

saws. no canned goods, not one reliable map.

        A Panama railroad still crosses from the Atlantic

to the Pacific. from Colon to Panama City. Much of the

ride—especially if you are in one of the older cars

(without air conditioning, windows open wide)—looks

and feels as it must have originally. The full trip takes

one hour and thirty minutes. But except for a few miles

at either end. the present line is altogether different

from the original. It takes a (lament route on higher

ground. The old road has vanished beneath Gatun Lake,

the enormous body of fresh water that comprises most

of the canal and that can be seen close by on the right

much of the way as you head toward the Pacific.

        The original line was built as hurriedly and

cheaply as circumstances would allow, to take advantage 

of the bonanza in California traffic. The route was

always along the line of least resistance. Anything for-

midable in the way—a hill, a bend in the Chagres

River—was bypassed if possible. No tunnels were

attempted (there is one on the present line), and the

winding right of way chopped through the jungle was

just wide enough to let a train pass. Still, this one little

stretch of track took nearly five years to build and cost

$8 million, which averages out to a little less than ten

miles a year and a then unheard-of $168.000 per mile.


Passage 3

Passage A is adapted from the essay “Henry D. Thoreau” by John Burroughs (©1882 by The Century Co. ) Passage B is adapted from the essay “Qualified Homage to Thoreau” by Wallace Stegner ©1992 by the Estate of Wallace Stegner). 

Passage I

        Thoreau’s fame has steadily increased since his

death, in 1862, as it was bound to do. It was little more

than in the bud at that time, and its full leaf and flower-

ing are not yet, perhaps not in many years yet. He

improves with age; in fact, requires age to take off a

little of his asperity and fully ripen him. The generation

he lectured so sharply will not give the same heed to his

words as will the next and the next. The first effect of

the reading of his books, upon many minds, is irritation

and disapproval; the perception of their beauty and

wisdom comes later. He was a man devoid of compassion,

devoid of sympathy, devoid of generosity. devoid

of patriotism, as these words are usually understood.

yet his life showed a devotion to principle such as one

 life in millions does not show; and matching this there

runs through his works a vein of the purest and rarest

poetry and the finest wisdom. for both these reasons

time will enhance rather than lessen the value of his

contributions. The world likes a good hater and refuser

almost as well as it likes a good lover and acceptor,

only it likes him farther off.

        In writing of Thoreau, I am not conscious of

having any criticism to make of him, I would fain

accept him just as he was, and make the most of him,

defining and discriminating him as I would a flower or

a bird or any other product of nature—perhaps exaggerating

some features the better to bring them out I sup-

pose there were greater men among his contemporaries.

but I doubt if there were any more genuine and sincere.

or more devoted to ideal ends. If he was not this, that.

or the other great man, he was Thoreau, and he fills his

own niche well, and has left a positive and distinct

impression upon the literature of his country. He was.

perhaps, a little too near his friend and master.

Emerson, and brought too directly under his influence.

But the contour of his moral nature was just as firm and

resisting. He was no more a soft-shelled egg, to be

dented by every straw in the nest, than was his

distinguished neighbor.

Passage II

Walden Woods is the 2.680-acre area outside of Boston, Mass-achusetts. that inspired Thoreau’s book Walden. 


        Before I get around to saying why I think that

Walden Woods absolutely must be preserved from sub-

division and development, let me confess that, much as

I admire Thoreau’s hard-mouthed intellectual integrity

and his knotty grappler’s mind. I have some reservations

about him. There are writings of his that I admire

more than Walden—the essay “Walking.” for example.

which is superb from first line to last, and “Civil Dis-

obedience,” though this latter is as explosive as dynamite

caps. and should not be left around where children

might find it and play with it. Reading Walden, I am

alternately exhilarated and exasperated, as some of the

author’s contemporaries weft with the man himself. In

one paragraph he may say something that has been

waiting a thousand years to be said so well; in the next

he is capable of something so outrageous that it sets my

teeth on edge.

        With the Thoreau who observed and participated

in nature, the Thoreau who loved wildness. and the

Thoreau who trusted physical labor so long as it was

not a compulsion, and who mistrusted material ambition,

I am completely in accord. It is Thoreau the moralizing

enemy of the tradition to which he owes all his

own authority who puts me off.

        Like any zealot, he is intemperate. At times he

sounds perilously like his spiritual descendants of the

1960s, who trusted no one over thirty and believed that

they existed outside of, and were exempt from, the society

they were protesting. What I miss in him, as I

missed it in the more extreme rebels of the 1960s, is the

acknowledgment that their society shaped them, that

without it every individual of them would be a sort of

Sasquatch, a solitary animal without language, thought,

tradition. obligation, or commitment. It is culture, tradition,

that teaches us to be human, teaches us almost

everything, including how to protest and what to protest

about. 
        I never hear Thoreau admitting this—in fact. he

often specifically denies it, and his denials raise my

temperature. “Flow about a little well-deserved humility?”

I feel like asking him. It is like arguing with a

television screen, but it eases the mind.

        The fact is, it is precisely Thorcau’s repudiation of

the dead hand of the past that makes him so excruciatingly

American. He pretends to believe that all experience

is not merely fruitless, but damaging. “Men

think they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure,” he

remarks in Walden. “I have always been regretting that

I was not as wise as the day I was born.”


Passage 4

This passage is adapted from the article “Molecular Evolution” by Tina Homan Saey (©2009 by Society for Science 8 the Public). 

       Richard Lenski, an evolutionary biologist, is

among the scientists hitting the rewind button on

evolution. Meter-high letters taped to the window of his

lab spell out the lab’s motto: EVOLVE.

       Inside the lab, a dozen glass flasks containing

clear liquid swirl in a temperature-controlled incubator.

Although the naked eye can’t see them, millions of

E. coli bacteria grow in the flasks, doing what the

window exhorts. Lenski started the cultures in 1988,

intending to follow the course of natural selection for

several hundred generations. Now, two decades later,

the cultures are still growing and have produced more

than 45,000 generations of bacteria each.

       These 12 flasks “represent the stripped-down bare

essentials of evolution,” says Zachary Blount, a graduate

student in Lenski’s lab. The environment never

changes. No new genes enter the system from migrating

microorganisms. And the scientists take no action to

affect the course of evolution within the flasks. Only

the intrinsic, core processes of evolution influence the

outcome, Blount says.

       Lenski and his colleagues have watched the gameplay

out, occasionally analyzing DNA to peer over the

players’ shoulders and find out what cards they hold.

On the surface, the populations in the 12 flasks seem to

have traveled similar paths—all now grow larger cells

and have become more efficient at using glucose than

their ancestors. And many of the strains have accumulated

mutations in the same genes. Notably, though,

none of the strains developed exactly the same genetic

changes.

       Randomness is an imponant part of the evolutionary

equation, as the experiment illustrates. During the

first 2,000 generations, all of the 12 populations rapidly

increased in size and fitness. But then these changes

began to slow down, hitting the evolutionary equivalent

of a dieter’s plateau.

       After 10.000 generations, it became apparent that

not all the flasks were on the same trajectory. Though

cells in all the flasks became larger, each population

differed in the maximum size the cells reached. The

populations also differed in how much fitter they were

than their ancestors, when grown in direct competition.

Several of the flasks now contain mutator strains, bacteria

that have defects in their DNA replication system.

Such defects make mistakes more likely to happen every

time those bacterial strains copy their DNA to

divide. Sometimes a mistake can have lethal consequences,

damaging a gene crucial for survival. But

other times coloring a bit outside the lines creates

opportunity for advancement. 
         Even within a given flask, some bacteria take

slightly different paths. One flask now contains two

separate strains—one that makes large colonies when

grown on petri dishes, and one that makes small

colonies. The large- and small-colony strains have

coexisted for more than 12,000 generations. The large-

colony producers are much better at Using glucose so

they grow quickly, but they make by-products that the

small-colony producers can eat. Both strains have

increased in fitness over the generations.

         Still, though the details were different, replaying

 evolution in a dozen flasks produced very similar out-

comes in each. 

         But then something completely unexpected happened.

After about 31,500 generations, glucose-eating

bacteria in one flask suddenly developed the ability to

eat a chemical called citrate, something no other E. coli

do. 
         The switch was clearly a radical change of destination

for the bacteria. The inability to eat citrate is a biochemical

hallmark of the E. coil species, so by some

definitions, the citrate eaten in that flask are no longer

E. coil. 
         But a single change did not a citrate eater make.

The researchers found that the bacteria went through a

series of steps before evolving the ability to use citrate.

One initial mutation happened at least 11,000 generations

before the citrate eaten appeared. Lenski doesn’t

yet know which specific DNA changes led to citrate

use, but it’s clear that the ability to use citrate is contingent

upon those earlier changes. And even bacteria that

have undergone those initial changes are still not guar-

anteed to eat citrate. Blount tested 40 trillion bacteria

from earlier generations to see if any could evolve the

ability to eat citrate. Fewer than one in a trillion could.

         The profound difference between the citrate eaters

and the other 11 strains, as well as the dependence of

the citrate change on earlier mutations, seems to sug-

gest that replaying evolution will result in some sur-

prise endings.


2020 年 6 月 ACT 考試閱讀題目

Ivy-Way 學生在上課的過程就會做到 2020 年 6 月以及其他的官方歷年考題。除此之外,我們也有讓學生來我們的教室或在家做模考的服務讓學生評估自己的學習進度並看到成績。如果你想預約時間來我們的教室或在家做模考,請聯繫我們!如果你想購買考題在家做,學生可以在Ivy-Way蝦皮商城Ivy-Way臉書粉專、或 Line (ivyway) 直接購買喔!


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