Verbal Ability ...

Read the passage and answer the following questions:

As the web has developed, the art of web design has grown with it. At the same time, the ubiquity of social media has fundamentally altered how we consume our news.

The evidence suggests that despite all the controversies of the last few years, we are becoming more, not less trusting of our news feeds This isn’t a coincidence: the appearance of online news, with its large “hero” images, HTML5 charts and graphics, suggests authority. As news websites have become more polished, they have made the amateurish-looking blog mostly a thing of the past.

We have reached a point where to distinguish visually between sources of news online, particularly when browsing in a hurry, can be difficult. Many of the shorthand pieces of visual language which help us distinguish print publications—font choices, paper size, image choice and colour schemes—are not present or less prominent online. While there are still obvious differences between the websites of, say, the Sun and the Financial Times, within the tabloids and broadsheets, there is often little to distinguish them in visual identity.

This level of similarity isn’t problematic while users are dealing with established titles but in a changing landscape of new media outlets, a strong visual presence can provide an initial veneer of credibility for those with less-than-noble aims.

This problem reaches its nadir on social media, where the presentation of links is virtually undistinguished. While a reader might choose not to click on a link to the Guardian or the Telegraph, depending on their tastes, they may not know instinctively that, for example, the Boston Tribune or the Denver Guardian are fake news sites.

All these fake news links come with an embedded image and an SEO-friendly headline—often highly emotive and designed to garner reactions and shares—in a way which standardises the look of the news feed and gives equal weight to every post, no matter the source.

The Edelman Trust Barometer Survey data for the UK in 2018 showed 64 per cent of people are not confident they can distinguish legitimate reporting from rumours or lies.

In the same survey, as many as 42 per cent of people said they only skim the headlines on social media, leaving the content—where truth can most easily be determined—often unread. We see this reflected in the hectoring of journalists for headlines which they didn’t write, by people who haven’t read their argument.

Polls by YouGov show this cohort growing from 15 per cent in 2011 to 22 per cent in 2018—while the number who trust traditional news sites has dropped from 55 per cent to 39 per cent.

Facebook has made glacial progress towards verifying sources, discouraging shares of outright fake stories and providing an info button providing context for the source of a link, but this is a patchy system at best. Twitter has failed to address extremists using its platform, and there is no system for verifying sources of links there—Twitter cards are universally available, and in an online economy based on retweets and likes, it’s easy to see why action has been reluctant.

Despite the heavy focus, fake news is less dangerous than ultra-partisan sites, which tend to rely on confirming prejudices, spinning stories well beyond the bounds of normal journalistic practice, and wearing partisan leanings on their sleeves.

Read the passage and answer the following questions:

As the web has developed, the art of web design has grown with it. At the same time, the ubiquity of social media has fundamentally altered how we consume our news.

The evidence suggests that despite all the controversies of the last few years, we are becoming more, not less trusting of our news feeds This isn’t a coincidence: the appearance of online news, with its large “hero” images, HTML5 charts and graphics, suggests authority. As news websites have become more polished, they have made the amateurish-looking blog mostly a thing of the past.

We have reached a point where to distinguish visually between sources of news online, particularly when browsing in a hurry, can be difficult. Many of the shorthand pieces of visual language which help us distinguish print publications—font choices, paper size, image choice and colour schemes—are not present or less prominent online. While there are still obvious differences between the websites of, say, the Sun and the Financial Times, within the tabloids and broadsheets, there is often little to distinguish them in visual identity.

This level of similarity isn’t problematic while users are dealing with established titles but in a changing landscape of new media outlets, a strong visual presence can provide an initial veneer of credibility for those with less-than-noble aims.

This problem reaches its nadir on social media, where the presentation of links is virtually undistinguished. While a reader might choose not to click on a link to the Guardian or the Telegraph, depending on their tastes, they may not know instinctively that, for example, the Boston Tribune or the Denver Guardian are fake news sites.

All these fake news links come with an embedded image and an SEO-friendly headline—often highly emotive and designed to garner reactions and shares—in a way which standardises the look of the news feed and gives equal weight to every post, no matter the source.

The Edelman Trust Barometer Survey data for the UK in 2018 showed 64 per cent of people are not confident they can distinguish legitimate reporting from rumours or lies.

In the same survey, as many as 42 per cent of people said they only skim the headlines on social media, leaving the content—where truth can most easily be determined—often unread. We see this reflected in the hectoring of journalists for headlines which they didn’t write, by people who haven’t read their argument.

Polls by YouGov show this cohort growing from 15 per cent in 2011 to 22 per cent in 2018—while the number who trust traditional news sites has dropped from 55 per cent to 39 per cent.

Facebook has made glacial progress towards verifying sources, discouraging shares of outright fake stories and providing an info button providing context for the source of a link, but this is a patchy system at best. Twitter has failed to address extremists using its platform, and there is no system for verifying sources of links there—Twitter cards are universally available, and in an online economy based on retweets and likes, it’s easy to see why action has been reluctant.

Despite the heavy focus, fake news is less dangerous than ultra-partisan sites, which tend to rely on confirming prejudices, spinning stories well beyond the bounds of normal journalistic practice, and wearing partisan leanings on their sleeves.

Read the passage and answer the following questions:

As the web has developed, the art of web design has grown with it. At the same time, the ubiquity of social media has fundamentally altered how we consume our news.

The evidence suggests that despite all the controversies of the last few years, we are becoming more, not less trusting of our news feeds This isn’t a coincidence: the appearance of online news, with its large “hero” images, HTML5 charts and graphics, suggests authority. As news websites have become more polished, they have made the amateurish-looking blog mostly a thing of the past.

We have reached a point where to distinguish visually between sources of news online, particularly when browsing in a hurry, can be difficult. Many of the shorthand pieces of visual language which help us distinguish print publications—font choices, paper size, image choice and colour schemes—are not present or less prominent online. While there are still obvious differences between the websites of, say, the Sun and the Financial Times, within the tabloids and broadsheets, there is often little to distinguish them in visual identity.

This level of similarity isn’t problematic while users are dealing with established titles but in a changing landscape of new media outlets, a strong visual presence can provide an initial veneer of credibility for those with less-than-noble aims.

This problem reaches its nadir on social media, where the presentation of links is virtually undistinguished. While a reader might choose not to click on a link to the Guardian or the Telegraph, depending on their tastes, they may not know instinctively that, for example, the Boston Tribune or the Denver Guardian are fake news sites.

All these fake news links come with an embedded image and an SEO-friendly headline—often highly emotive and designed to garner reactions and shares—in a way which standardises the look of the news feed and gives equal weight to every post, no matter the source.

The Edelman Trust Barometer Survey data for the UK in 2018 showed 64 per cent of people are not confident they can distinguish legitimate reporting from rumours or lies.

In the same survey, as many as 42 per cent of people said they only skim the headlines on social media, leaving the content—where truth can most easily be determined—often unread. We see this reflected in the hectoring of journalists for headlines which they didn’t write, by people who haven’t read their argument.

Polls by YouGov show this cohort growing from 15 per cent in 2011 to 22 per cent in 2018—while the number who trust traditional news sites has dropped from 55 per cent to 39 per cent.

Facebook has made glacial progress towards verifying sources, discouraging shares of outright fake stories and providing an info button providing context for the source of a link, but this is a patchy system at best. Twitter has failed to address extremists using its platform, and there is no system for verifying sources of links there—Twitter cards are universally available, and in an online economy based on retweets and likes, it’s easy to see why action has been reluctant.

Despite the heavy focus, fake news is less dangerous than ultra-partisan sites, which tend to rely on confirming prejudices, spinning stories well beyond the bounds of normal journalistic practice, and wearing partisan leanings on their sleeves.

Read the passage and answer the following questions:

As the web has developed, the art of web design has grown with it. At the same time, the ubiquity of social media has fundamentally altered how we consume our news.

The evidence suggests that despite all the controversies of the last few years, we are becoming more, not less trusting of our news feeds This isn’t a coincidence: the appearance of online news, with its large “hero” images, HTML5 charts and graphics, suggests authority. As news websites have become more polished, they have made the amateurish-looking blog mostly a thing of the past.

We have reached a point where to distinguish visually between sources of news online, particularly when browsing in a hurry, can be difficult. Many of the shorthand pieces of visual language which help us distinguish print publications—font choices, paper size, image choice and colour schemes—are not present or less prominent online. While there are still obvious differences between the websites of, say, the Sun and the Financial Times, within the tabloids and broadsheets, there is often little to distinguish them in visual identity.

This level of similarity isn’t problematic while users are dealing with established titles but in a changing landscape of new media outlets, a strong visual presence can provide an initial veneer of credibility for those with less-than-noble aims.

This problem reaches its nadir on social media, where the presentation of links is virtually undistinguished. While a reader might choose not to click on a link to the Guardian or the Telegraph, depending on their tastes, they may not know instinctively that, for example, the Boston Tribune or the Denver Guardian are fake news sites.

All these fake news links come with an embedded image and an SEO-friendly headline—often highly emotive and designed to garner reactions and shares—in a way which standardises the look of the news feed and gives equal weight to every post, no matter the source.

The Edelman Trust Barometer Survey data for the UK in 2018 showed 64 per cent of people are not confident they can distinguish legitimate reporting from rumours or lies.

In the same survey, as many as 42 per cent of people said they only skim the headlines on social media, leaving the content—where truth can most easily be determined—often unread. We see this reflected in the hectoring of journalists for headlines which they didn’t write, by people who haven’t read their argument.

Polls by YouGov show this cohort growing from 15 per cent in 2011 to 22 per cent in 2018—while the number who trust traditional news sites has dropped from 55 per cent to 39 per cent.

Facebook has made glacial progress towards verifying sources, discouraging shares of outright fake stories and providing an info button providing context for the source of a link, but this is a patchy system at best. Twitter has failed to address extremists using its platform, and there is no system for verifying sources of links there—Twitter cards are universally available, and in an online economy based on retweets and likes, it’s easy to see why action has been reluctant.

Despite the heavy focus, fake news is less dangerous than ultra-partisan sites, which tend to rely on confirming prejudices, spinning stories well beyond the bounds of normal journalistic practice, and wearing partisan leanings on their sleeves.

Read the following passage and answer the questions that follow.

For centuries we've heard that the meek shall inherit the earth. But what we haven't heard a lot about is that for decades Christmas has been waging a war on the meek.

According to a study published in November 2019 in the journal Biological Conservation, entitled “Light Pollution Is a Driver of Insect Declines”, steep drops in insect numbers around the world have happened over the past couple of decades in what amounts to an “insect apocalypse.” The blame is usually assigned to “habitat loss, chemical pollution, invasive species, and climate change.” But the authors contend that the forces of lightness have not gotten their due. And they cite what they call “diurnal bias.” The allegorically intoxicated man famously searches for his lost wallet under the streetlight where he can see better. Conversely, so may exist “a preference among ecologists for studying daytime phenomena”—diurnal bias. When would you rather count bugs, after a nice breakfast or four hours before breakfast when you can barely see your hand in front of your bleary eyes? The research team thus asserts that a preference for sleeping at night “has led insect conservationists to overlook another widespread habitat disturbance, pollutant, and method of insect control: artificial light at night (ALAN).”

ALAN's iniquitous influence occurs “through its interference with the development, movement, foraging, and reproductive success of diverse insect species.” Another factor is light's “positive effect on insectivore predation.” That is, birds, bats, amphibians and arachnids aren't stupid—if a lot of insects start swirling around lights in the night, predators will also show up. The result is a big buggy banquet of hefty hexapodal helpings that precipitates a plummeting in part of the Pancrustacea population.

Sadly, ALAN spikes sharply after Thanksgiving, as many people add festive illumination to the exterior of their houses to celebrate the approach of Christmas. The massive carnage to insects is accompanied by lines of slow-moving cars belching noxious gases in front of the home, just to catch a glimpse of the outward manifestation of the family's deep-rooted obsession.

The task then must be to lessen “the ecological consequences of ALAN on insects while still maintaining sufficient levels of nighttime illumination for human safety and enjoyment,” the researchers write. Fortunately, their study offers some solutions to this existential pestilential crisis.
The first is of the category in which one both possesses a pastry and partakes of it as well: “Monochromatic LEDs can be engineered to produce light of any desired spectral composition,” the investigators write. “Therefore, once we know the specific wavelength affinities of insects, we can in theory design lights with minimal output in the wavelengths that most affect insect fitness.”

The second is astonishingly ingenious: turn some of the lights off. (One must wonder if a paradoxical and figurative lightbulb came on above the scientists' heads when they came up with the idea of turning the lights off.) “In many cases,” they write, “it is far easier, quicker, and cheaper to shield, dim, or turn off a light source than it is to find the particular bulb type or narrow bandpass filter that makes its emissions visible to humans alone.” Help end the war on insects. It is better to blow out one candle than to curse the planet.

Read the following passage and answer the questions that follow.

For centuries we've heard that the meek shall inherit the earth. But what we haven't heard a lot about is that for decades Christmas has been waging a war on the meek.

According to a study published in November 2019 in the journal Biological Conservation, entitled “Light Pollution Is a Driver of Insect Declines”, steep drops in insect numbers around the world have happened over the past couple of decades in what amounts to an “insect apocalypse.” The blame is usually assigned to “habitat loss, chemical pollution, invasive species, and climate change.” But the authors contend that the forces of lightness have not gotten their due. And they cite what they call “diurnal bias.” The allegorically intoxicated man famously searches for his lost wallet under the streetlight where he can see better. Conversely, so may exist “a preference among ecologists for studying daytime phenomena”—diurnal bias. When would you rather count bugs, after a nice breakfast or four hours before breakfast when you can barely see your hand in front of your bleary eyes? The research team thus asserts that a preference for sleeping at night “has led insect conservationists to overlook another widespread habitat disturbance, pollutant, and method of insect control: artificial light at night (ALAN).”

ALAN's iniquitous influence occurs “through its interference with the development, movement, foraging, and reproductive success of diverse insect species.” Another factor is light's “positive effect on insectivore predation.” That is, birds, bats, amphibians and arachnids aren't stupid—if a lot of insects start swirling around lights in the night, predators will also show up. The result is a big buggy banquet of hefty hexapodal helpings that precipitates a plummeting in part of the Pancrustacea population.

Sadly, ALAN spikes sharply after Thanksgiving, as many people add festive illumination to the exterior of their houses to celebrate the approach of Christmas. The massive carnage to insects is accompanied by lines of slow-moving cars belching noxious gases in front of the home, just to catch a glimpse of the outward manifestation of the family's deep-rooted obsession.

The task then must be to lessen “the ecological consequences of ALAN on insects while still maintaining sufficient levels of nighttime illumination for human safety and enjoyment,” the researchers write. Fortunately, their study offers some solutions to this existential pestilential crisis.
The first is of the category in which one both possesses a pastry and partakes of it as well: “Monochromatic LEDs can be engineered to produce light of any desired spectral composition,” the investigators write. “Therefore, once we know the specific wavelength affinities of insects, we can in theory design lights with minimal output in the wavelengths that most affect insect fitness.”

The second is astonishingly ingenious: turn some of the lights off. (One must wonder if a paradoxical and figurative lightbulb came on above the scientists' heads when they came up with the idea of turning the lights off.) “In many cases,” they write, “it is far easier, quicker, and cheaper to shield, dim, or turn off a light source than it is to find the particular bulb type or narrow bandpass filter that makes its emissions visible to humans alone.” Help end the war on insects. It is better to blow out one candle than to curse the planet.

Read the following passage and answer the questions that follow.

For centuries we've heard that the meek shall inherit the earth. But what we haven't heard a lot about is that for decades Christmas has been waging a war on the meek.

According to a study published in November 2019 in the journal Biological Conservation, entitled “Light Pollution Is a Driver of Insect Declines”, steep drops in insect numbers around the world have happened over the past couple of decades in what amounts to an “insect apocalypse.” The blame is usually assigned to “habitat loss, chemical pollution, invasive species, and climate change.” But the authors contend that the forces of lightness have not gotten their due. And they cite what they call “diurnal bias.” The allegorically intoxicated man famously searches for his lost wallet under the streetlight where he can see better. Conversely, so may exist “a preference among ecologists for studying daytime phenomena”—diurnal bias. When would you rather count bugs, after a nice breakfast or four hours before breakfast when you can barely see your hand in front of your bleary eyes? The research team thus asserts that a preference for sleeping at night “has led insect conservationists to overlook another widespread habitat disturbance, pollutant, and method of insect control: artificial light at night (ALAN).”

ALAN's iniquitous influence occurs “through its interference with the development, movement, foraging, and reproductive success of diverse insect species.” Another factor is light's “positive effect on insectivore predation.” That is, birds, bats, amphibians and arachnids aren't stupid—if a lot of insects start swirling around lights in the night, predators will also show up. The result is a big buggy banquet of hefty hexapodal helpings that precipitates a plummeting in part of the Pancrustacea population.

Sadly, ALAN spikes sharply after Thanksgiving, as many people add festive illumination to the exterior of their houses to celebrate the approach of Christmas. The massive carnage to insects is accompanied by lines of slow-moving cars belching noxious gases in front of the home, just to catch a glimpse of the outward manifestation of the family's deep-rooted obsession.

The task then must be to lessen “the ecological consequences of ALAN on insects while still maintaining sufficient levels of nighttime illumination for human safety and enjoyment,” the researchers write. Fortunately, their study offers some solutions to this existential pestilential crisis.
The first is of the category in which one both possesses a pastry and partakes of it as well: “Monochromatic LEDs can be engineered to produce light of any desired spectral composition,” the investigators write. “Therefore, once we know the specific wavelength affinities of insects, we can in theory design lights with minimal output in the wavelengths that most affect insect fitness.”

The second is astonishingly ingenious: turn some of the lights off. (One must wonder if a paradoxical and figurative lightbulb came on above the scientists' heads when they came up with the idea of turning the lights off.) “In many cases,” they write, “it is far easier, quicker, and cheaper to shield, dim, or turn off a light source than it is to find the particular bulb type or narrow bandpass filter that makes its emissions visible to humans alone.” Help end the war on insects. It is better to blow out one candle than to curse the planet.

Read the following passage and answer the questions that follow.

For centuries we've heard that the meek shall inherit the earth. But what we haven't heard a lot about is that for decades Christmas has been waging a war on the meek.

According to a study published in November 2019 in the journal Biological Conservation, entitled “Light Pollution Is a Driver of Insect Declines”, steep drops in insect numbers around the world have happened over the past couple of decades in what amounts to an “insect apocalypse.” The blame is usually assigned to “habitat loss, chemical pollution, invasive species, and climate change.” But the authors contend that the forces of lightness have not gotten their due. And they cite what they call “diurnal bias.” The allegorically intoxicated man famously searches for his lost wallet under the streetlight where he can see better. Conversely, so may exist “a preference among ecologists for studying daytime phenomena”—diurnal bias. When would you rather count bugs, after a nice breakfast or four hours before breakfast when you can barely see your hand in front of your bleary eyes? The research team thus asserts that a preference for sleeping at night “has led insect conservationists to overlook another widespread habitat disturbance, pollutant, and method of insect control: artificial light at night (ALAN).”

ALAN's iniquitous influence occurs “through its interference with the development, movement, foraging, and reproductive success of diverse insect species.” Another factor is light's “positive effect on insectivore predation.” That is, birds, bats, amphibians and arachnids aren't stupid—if a lot of insects start swirling around lights in the night, predators will also show up. The result is a big buggy banquet of hefty hexapodal helpings that precipitates a plummeting in part of the Pancrustacea population.

Sadly, ALAN spikes sharply after Thanksgiving, as many people add festive illumination to the exterior of their houses to celebrate the approach of Christmas. The massive carnage to insects is accompanied by lines of slow-moving cars belching noxious gases in front of the home, just to catch a glimpse of the outward manifestation of the family's deep-rooted obsession.

The task then must be to lessen “the ecological consequences of ALAN on insects while still maintaining sufficient levels of nighttime illumination for human safety and enjoyment,” the researchers write. Fortunately, their study offers some solutions to this existential pestilential crisis.
The first is of the category in which one both possesses a pastry and partakes of it as well: “Monochromatic LEDs can be engineered to produce light of any desired spectral composition,” the investigators write. “Therefore, once we know the specific wavelength affinities of insects, we can in theory design lights with minimal output in the wavelengths that most affect insect fitness.”

The second is astonishingly ingenious: turn some of the lights off. (One must wonder if a paradoxical and figurative lightbulb came on above the scientists' heads when they came up with the idea of turning the lights off.) “In many cases,” they write, “it is far easier, quicker, and cheaper to shield, dim, or turn off a light source than it is to find the particular bulb type or narrow bandpass filter that makes its emissions visible to humans alone.” Help end the war on insects. It is better to blow out one candle than to curse the planet.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

The story of Vachaknavi’s debate is from chapter three of the oldest of the Upanishads, the Bṛihadaraṇyaka, a diverse and complex Sanskrit text on metaphysics and ethics from about 700 BCE. Vachaknavi is one of the many ‘hidden figures’ of women in the history of philosophy in Asia, Africa, Europe and Latin America - what is often called the Global South. Philosophers today increasingly recognise the contributions that female philosophers have made to the history of European philosophy, such as Elisabeth of Bohemia, Margaret Cavendish and Anne Conway in the 17th century. But beyond Europe, female philosophers, in general, continue to get short shrift, and their contributions go largely unrecognised.

Vachaknavi is not the only female thinker that helped to shape the world’s oldest philosophy. Already in chapter two of the Upanishad, it is a woman, Maitreyi, who launches a discussion on the importance of one’s self (atman) to gain ‘the knowledge of this whole world’. She begins by asking Yajnavalkya (often described as her husband, but better thought of as her philosophical companion) a basic existential question of human beings: "If I were to possess the entire world filled with wealth, would it make me immortal?" When he denies this, Maitreyi asks rhetorically: "What is the point in getting something that will not make me immortal?" With that, the first foundation stone for the investigation of the relationship of knowledge to materialism is laid. And then there is Sulabha, an ascetic Yogic wanderer, who wins a lengthy philosophical debate against the philosopher king Janaka in the epic Mahabharata (4th-century BCE-4th century CE). The king goes quiet after Sulabha sets the record straight: "My body is different from yours. But my soul is not different from your soul."

Indian male philosophers relied on their female counterparts throughout the centuries. The most famous classical Indian philosopher is perhaps Adi Shankara (788-820 CE), who formed the monistic school of Advaita Vedanta, a vital part of Hinduism that bases its arguments on the Upanishads. In biographies of him, we read how Shankara engaged in a competitive philosophical debate with Mandana Mishra of the rival school of Mimamsa, which uses only the four early Vedas. The verdict of the debate came from Ubhaya Bharati, Mishra’s wife. She, perhaps surprisingly, judged Shankara to be the champion, which had the unusual consequence of compelling her husband to submit to Shankara’s philosophical school. But then Bharati addresses Shankara: "You cannot claim complete success over my husband until I, his better half, have been defeated by you. Though you are an embodiment of divinity, I have a desire to debate with you." Shankara obeys. They debated the Vedas and the different philosophical schools for 17 days. Bharati could not beat him, but then she struck on the idea of questioning him on the Kama Sutra, the science and art of love, knowing that Shankara had been a celibate from boyhood. 

Shankara accepted the challenge but requested a month-long break to the discussion so that he could study these corporeal matters to perfection. He was successful, Bharati concludes, in the manner of Vachaknavi from the Upanishads: "You took all the trouble to master the science of sex just to conform to the ways of the world. That we have met with defeat at your hands is not a matter of shame for us, just like moon and stars do not go into disrepute when the sun suppresses their light." After the debate, Ubhaya Bharati reportedly founded her influential school of thought.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

The story of Vachaknavi’s debate is from chapter three of the oldest of the Upanishads, the Bṛihadaraṇyaka, a diverse and complex Sanskrit text on metaphysics and ethics from about 700 BCE. Vachaknavi is one of the many ‘hidden figures’ of women in the history of philosophy in Asia, Africa, Europe and Latin America - what is often called the Global South. Philosophers today increasingly recognise the contributions that female philosophers have made to the history of European philosophy, such as Elisabeth of Bohemia, Margaret Cavendish and Anne Conway in the 17th century. But beyond Europe, female philosophers, in general, continue to get short shrift, and their contributions go largely unrecognised.

Vachaknavi is not the only female thinker that helped to shape the world’s oldest philosophy. Already in chapter two of the Upanishad, it is a woman, Maitreyi, who launches a discussion on the importance of one’s self (atman) to gain ‘the knowledge of this whole world’. She begins by asking Yajnavalkya (often described as her husband, but better thought of as her philosophical companion) a basic existential question of human beings: "If I were to possess the entire world filled with wealth, would it make me immortal?" When he denies this, Maitreyi asks rhetorically: "What is the point in getting something that will not make me immortal?" With that, the first foundation stone for the investigation of the relationship of knowledge to materialism is laid. And then there is Sulabha, an ascetic Yogic wanderer, who wins a lengthy philosophical debate against the philosopher king Janaka in the epic Mahabharata (4th-century BCE-4th century CE). The king goes quiet after Sulabha sets the record straight: "My body is different from yours. But my soul is not different from your soul."

Indian male philosophers relied on their female counterparts throughout the centuries. The most famous classical Indian philosopher is perhaps Adi Shankara (788-820 CE), who formed the monistic school of Advaita Vedanta, a vital part of Hinduism that bases its arguments on the Upanishads. In biographies of him, we read how Shankara engaged in a competitive philosophical debate with Mandana Mishra of the rival school of Mimamsa, which uses only the four early Vedas. The verdict of the debate came from Ubhaya Bharati, Mishra’s wife. She, perhaps surprisingly, judged Shankara to be the champion, which had the unusual consequence of compelling her husband to submit to Shankara’s philosophical school. But then Bharati addresses Shankara: "You cannot claim complete success over my husband until I, his better half, have been defeated by you. Though you are an embodiment of divinity, I have a desire to debate with you." Shankara obeys. They debated the Vedas and the different philosophical schools for 17 days. Bharati could not beat him, but then she struck on the idea of questioning him on the Kama Sutra, the science and art of love, knowing that Shankara had been a celibate from boyhood. 

Shankara accepted the challenge but requested a month-long break to the discussion so that he could study these corporeal matters to perfection. He was successful, Bharati concludes, in the manner of Vachaknavi from the Upanishads: "You took all the trouble to master the science of sex just to conform to the ways of the world. That we have met with defeat at your hands is not a matter of shame for us, just like moon and stars do not go into disrepute when the sun suppresses their light." After the debate, Ubhaya Bharati reportedly founded her influential school of thought.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

The story of Vachaknavi’s debate is from chapter three of the oldest of the Upanishads, the Bṛihadaraṇyaka, a diverse and complex Sanskrit text on metaphysics and ethics from about 700 BCE. Vachaknavi is one of the many ‘hidden figures’ of women in the history of philosophy in Asia, Africa, Europe and Latin America - what is often called the Global South. Philosophers today increasingly recognise the contributions that female philosophers have made to the history of European philosophy, such as Elisabeth of Bohemia, Margaret Cavendish and Anne Conway in the 17th century. But beyond Europe, female philosophers, in general, continue to get short shrift, and their contributions go largely unrecognised.

Vachaknavi is not the only female thinker that helped to shape the world’s oldest philosophy. Already in chapter two of the Upanishad, it is a woman, Maitreyi, who launches a discussion on the importance of one’s self (atman) to gain ‘the knowledge of this whole world’. She begins by asking Yajnavalkya (often described as her husband, but better thought of as her philosophical companion) a basic existential question of human beings: "If I were to possess the entire world filled with wealth, would it make me immortal?" When he denies this, Maitreyi asks rhetorically: "What is the point in getting something that will not make me immortal?" With that, the first foundation stone for the investigation of the relationship of knowledge to materialism is laid. And then there is Sulabha, an ascetic Yogic wanderer, who wins a lengthy philosophical debate against the philosopher king Janaka in the epic Mahabharata (4th-century BCE-4th century CE). The king goes quiet after Sulabha sets the record straight: "My body is different from yours. But my soul is not different from your soul."

Indian male philosophers relied on their female counterparts throughout the centuries. The most famous classical Indian philosopher is perhaps Adi Shankara (788-820 CE), who formed the monistic school of Advaita Vedanta, a vital part of Hinduism that bases its arguments on the Upanishads. In biographies of him, we read how Shankara engaged in a competitive philosophical debate with Mandana Mishra of the rival school of Mimamsa, which uses only the four early Vedas. The verdict of the debate came from Ubhaya Bharati, Mishra’s wife. She, perhaps surprisingly, judged Shankara to be the champion, which had the unusual consequence of compelling her husband to submit to Shankara’s philosophical school. But then Bharati addresses Shankara: "You cannot claim complete success over my husband until I, his better half, have been defeated by you. Though you are an embodiment of divinity, I have a desire to debate with you." Shankara obeys. They debated the Vedas and the different philosophical schools for 17 days. Bharati could not beat him, but then she struck on the idea of questioning him on the Kama Sutra, the science and art of love, knowing that Shankara had been a celibate from boyhood. 

Shankara accepted the challenge but requested a month-long break to the discussion so that he could study these corporeal matters to perfection. He was successful, Bharati concludes, in the manner of Vachaknavi from the Upanishads: "You took all the trouble to master the science of sex just to conform to the ways of the world. That we have met with defeat at your hands is not a matter of shame for us, just like moon and stars do not go into disrepute when the sun suppresses their light." After the debate, Ubhaya Bharati reportedly founded her influential school of thought.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

The story of Vachaknavi’s debate is from chapter three of the oldest of the Upanishads, the Bṛihadaraṇyaka, a diverse and complex Sanskrit text on metaphysics and ethics from about 700 BCE. Vachaknavi is one of the many ‘hidden figures’ of women in the history of philosophy in Asia, Africa, Europe and Latin America - what is often called the Global South. Philosophers today increasingly recognise the contributions that female philosophers have made to the history of European philosophy, such as Elisabeth of Bohemia, Margaret Cavendish and Anne Conway in the 17th century. But beyond Europe, female philosophers, in general, continue to get short shrift, and their contributions go largely unrecognised.

Vachaknavi is not the only female thinker that helped to shape the world’s oldest philosophy. Already in chapter two of the Upanishad, it is a woman, Maitreyi, who launches a discussion on the importance of one’s self (atman) to gain ‘the knowledge of this whole world’. She begins by asking Yajnavalkya (often described as her husband, but better thought of as her philosophical companion) a basic existential question of human beings: "If I were to possess the entire world filled with wealth, would it make me immortal?" When he denies this, Maitreyi asks rhetorically: "What is the point in getting something that will not make me immortal?" With that, the first foundation stone for the investigation of the relationship of knowledge to materialism is laid. And then there is Sulabha, an ascetic Yogic wanderer, who wins a lengthy philosophical debate against the philosopher king Janaka in the epic Mahabharata (4th-century BCE-4th century CE). The king goes quiet after Sulabha sets the record straight: "My body is different from yours. But my soul is not different from your soul."

Indian male philosophers relied on their female counterparts throughout the centuries. The most famous classical Indian philosopher is perhaps Adi Shankara (788-820 CE), who formed the monistic school of Advaita Vedanta, a vital part of Hinduism that bases its arguments on the Upanishads. In biographies of him, we read how Shankara engaged in a competitive philosophical debate with Mandana Mishra of the rival school of Mimamsa, which uses only the four early Vedas. The verdict of the debate came from Ubhaya Bharati, Mishra’s wife. She, perhaps surprisingly, judged Shankara to be the champion, which had the unusual consequence of compelling her husband to submit to Shankara’s philosophical school. But then Bharati addresses Shankara: "You cannot claim complete success over my husband until I, his better half, have been defeated by you. Though you are an embodiment of divinity, I have a desire to debate with you." Shankara obeys. They debated the Vedas and the different philosophical schools for 17 days. Bharati could not beat him, but then she struck on the idea of questioning him on the Kama Sutra, the science and art of love, knowing that Shankara had been a celibate from boyhood. 

Shankara accepted the challenge but requested a month-long break to the discussion so that he could study these corporeal matters to perfection. He was successful, Bharati concludes, in the manner of Vachaknavi from the Upanishads: "You took all the trouble to master the science of sex just to conform to the ways of the world. That we have met with defeat at your hands is not a matter of shame for us, just like moon and stars do not go into disrepute when the sun suppresses their light." After the debate, Ubhaya Bharati reportedly founded her influential school of thought.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

Nestled amid the soaring skyscrapers of Tokyo’s central business district, Kiyoshi Takagi practises an art form that is more than 1,300 years old. He is making washi paper, a craft now protected by Unesco as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Washi refers to paper made using traditional Japanese methods that is stronger and more durable than its flimsier industrially-produced cousin, says Takagi, manager of Ozu Washi, a shop and museum dedicated to the art. Traditionally, it was not only used for writing and painting but also lanterns, umbrellas, clothing and the iconic shoji sliding doors and walls.

Tagaki thinks that was partly due to Japan’s sakoku, or “closed country” policy, a 220-year period of self-imposed isolation from the mid-1600s that severely restricted trade and consequently access to materials and technology. “Even things like glass weren’t available to us until the Meiji period, which was the 1800s,” he says. “The lack of industrial power forced Japanese people to make use of what was available to them.”

Japan’s isolation ended nearly two centuries ago and more recently the flow of technology and ideas has decidedly reversed, but intriguingly the country’s love affair with paper persists. Cash is still king; paper packaging is ornate and extensive; fax is still widely used; exchanging business cards is a mandatory professional ritual, and paperwork is endemic in business and government.

The government is trying to change that, encouraging cashless payments and attempting to replace paper-based transactions with online ones. While young people are increasingly switching to a paperless existence, there are a growing number of innovations happening with paper that suggests the relationship is far from over.

While it’s easy to take a romantic view of Japan’s cultural connection with paper, its over-reliance on cash and paperwork is a genuine problem. While its nearest neighbours - China and South Korea - have eagerly adopted digital transactions, more than three-quarters of payments in the country are still made with cash. It costs the government around ¥1 trillion (£6.8 billion) a year to print and transfer paper bills, according to Nomura Research Institute, while handling cash costs businesses roughly $73.60 billion (£55 billion) a year, Mizuho Financial Group estimates.

In an effort to shift the needle the government recently offered a rebate on sales tax if shoppers went cashless, but there are few incentives for shops to accept them. Kawakita Toshio runs a toy store in Kiyosumishirakawa, Tokyo, and started accepting digital payments - both card and app-based - in 2018, but 99% of his transactions are still in cash. Transaction charges and a lack of customer demand mean few shops in his area accept cashless payments, he says. Many owners are also from older generations and not au fait with digital processes. “You need at least a bit of technical literacy,” he says. “I’m an exception because I can use computers. For other people from my generation, it’s a hurdle.”

Japanese businesses are also drowning in paperwork, exemplified by the fact that fax is still widely used in Japan. Every year companies have to fill out multiple forms for each employee, including for tax pensions and insurance and everything from setting up new businesses to transferring property requires paperwork to be signed off by a notary.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

Nestled amid the soaring skyscrapers of Tokyo’s central business district, Kiyoshi Takagi practises an art form that is more than 1,300 years old. He is making washi paper, a craft now protected by Unesco as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Washi refers to paper made using traditional Japanese methods that is stronger and more durable than its flimsier industrially-produced cousin, says Takagi, manager of Ozu Washi, a shop and museum dedicated to the art. Traditionally, it was not only used for writing and painting but also lanterns, umbrellas, clothing and the iconic shoji sliding doors and walls.

Tagaki thinks that was partly due to Japan’s sakoku, or “closed country” policy, a 220-year period of self-imposed isolation from the mid-1600s that severely restricted trade and consequently access to materials and technology. “Even things like glass weren’t available to us until the Meiji period, which was the 1800s,” he says. “The lack of industrial power forced Japanese people to make use of what was available to them.”

Japan’s isolation ended nearly two centuries ago and more recently the flow of technology and ideas has decidedly reversed, but intriguingly the country’s love affair with paper persists. Cash is still king; paper packaging is ornate and extensive; fax is still widely used; exchanging business cards is a mandatory professional ritual, and paperwork is endemic in business and government.

The government is trying to change that, encouraging cashless payments and attempting to replace paper-based transactions with online ones. While young people are increasingly switching to a paperless existence, there are a growing number of innovations happening with paper that suggests the relationship is far from over.

While it’s easy to take a romantic view of Japan’s cultural connection with paper, its over-reliance on cash and paperwork is a genuine problem. While its nearest neighbours - China and South Korea - have eagerly adopted digital transactions, more than three-quarters of payments in the country are still made with cash. It costs the government around ¥1 trillion (£6.8 billion) a year to print and transfer paper bills, according to Nomura Research Institute, while handling cash costs businesses roughly $73.60 billion (£55 billion) a year, Mizuho Financial Group estimates.

In an effort to shift the needle the government recently offered a rebate on sales tax if shoppers went cashless, but there are few incentives for shops to accept them. Kawakita Toshio runs a toy store in Kiyosumishirakawa, Tokyo, and started accepting digital payments - both card and app-based - in 2018, but 99% of his transactions are still in cash. Transaction charges and a lack of customer demand mean few shops in his area accept cashless payments, he says. Many owners are also from older generations and not au fait with digital processes. “You need at least a bit of technical literacy,” he says. “I’m an exception because I can use computers. For other people from my generation, it’s a hurdle.”

Japanese businesses are also drowning in paperwork, exemplified by the fact that fax is still widely used in Japan. Every year companies have to fill out multiple forms for each employee, including for tax pensions and insurance and everything from setting up new businesses to transferring property requires paperwork to be signed off by a notary.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

Nestled amid the soaring skyscrapers of Tokyo’s central business district, Kiyoshi Takagi practises an art form that is more than 1,300 years old. He is making washi paper, a craft now protected by Unesco as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Washi refers to paper made using traditional Japanese methods that is stronger and more durable than its flimsier industrially-produced cousin, says Takagi, manager of Ozu Washi, a shop and museum dedicated to the art. Traditionally, it was not only used for writing and painting but also lanterns, umbrellas, clothing and the iconic shoji sliding doors and walls.

Tagaki thinks that was partly due to Japan’s sakoku, or “closed country” policy, a 220-year period of self-imposed isolation from the mid-1600s that severely restricted trade and consequently access to materials and technology. “Even things like glass weren’t available to us until the Meiji period, which was the 1800s,” he says. “The lack of industrial power forced Japanese people to make use of what was available to them.”

Japan’s isolation ended nearly two centuries ago and more recently the flow of technology and ideas has decidedly reversed, but intriguingly the country’s love affair with paper persists. Cash is still king; paper packaging is ornate and extensive; fax is still widely used; exchanging business cards is a mandatory professional ritual, and paperwork is endemic in business and government.

The government is trying to change that, encouraging cashless payments and attempting to replace paper-based transactions with online ones. While young people are increasingly switching to a paperless existence, there are a growing number of innovations happening with paper that suggests the relationship is far from over.

While it’s easy to take a romantic view of Japan’s cultural connection with paper, its over-reliance on cash and paperwork is a genuine problem. While its nearest neighbours - China and South Korea - have eagerly adopted digital transactions, more than three-quarters of payments in the country are still made with cash. It costs the government around ¥1 trillion (£6.8 billion) a year to print and transfer paper bills, according to Nomura Research Institute, while handling cash costs businesses roughly $73.60 billion (£55 billion) a year, Mizuho Financial Group estimates.

In an effort to shift the needle the government recently offered a rebate on sales tax if shoppers went cashless, but there are few incentives for shops to accept them. Kawakita Toshio runs a toy store in Kiyosumishirakawa, Tokyo, and started accepting digital payments - both card and app-based - in 2018, but 99% of his transactions are still in cash. Transaction charges and a lack of customer demand mean few shops in his area accept cashless payments, he says. Many owners are also from older generations and not au fait with digital processes. “You need at least a bit of technical literacy,” he says. “I’m an exception because I can use computers. For other people from my generation, it’s a hurdle.”

Japanese businesses are also drowning in paperwork, exemplified by the fact that fax is still widely used in Japan. Every year companies have to fill out multiple forms for each employee, including for tax pensions and insurance and everything from setting up new businesses to transferring property requires paperwork to be signed off by a notary.

Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow:

Nestled amid the soaring skyscrapers of Tokyo’s central business district, Kiyoshi Takagi practises an art form that is more than 1,300 years old. He is making washi paper, a craft now protected by Unesco as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Washi refers to paper made using traditional Japanese methods that is stronger and more durable than its flimsier industrially-produced cousin, says Takagi, manager of Ozu Washi, a shop and museum dedicated to the art. Traditionally, it was not only used for writing and painting but also lanterns, umbrellas, clothing and the iconic shoji sliding doors and walls.

Tagaki thinks that was partly due to Japan’s sakoku, or “closed country” policy, a 220-year period of self-imposed isolation from the mid-1600s that severely restricted trade and consequently access to materials and technology. “Even things like glass weren’t available to us until the Meiji period, which was the 1800s,” he says. “The lack of industrial power forced Japanese people to make use of what was available to them.”

Japan’s isolation ended nearly two centuries ago and more recently the flow of technology and ideas has decidedly reversed, but intriguingly the country’s love affair with paper persists. Cash is still king; paper packaging is ornate and extensive; fax is still widely used; exchanging business cards is a mandatory professional ritual, and paperwork is endemic in business and government.

The government is trying to change that, encouraging cashless payments and attempting to replace paper-based transactions with online ones. While young people are increasingly switching to a paperless existence, there are a growing number of innovations happening with paper that suggests the relationship is far from over.

While it’s easy to take a romantic view of Japan’s cultural connection with paper, its over-reliance on cash and paperwork is a genuine problem. While its nearest neighbours - China and South Korea - have eagerly adopted digital transactions, more than three-quarters of payments in the country are still made with cash. It costs the government around ¥1 trillion (£6.8 billion) a year to print and transfer paper bills, according to Nomura Research Institute, while handling cash costs businesses roughly $73.60 billion (£55 billion) a year, Mizuho Financial Group estimates.

In an effort to shift the needle the government recently offered a rebate on sales tax if shoppers went cashless, but there are few incentives for shops to accept them. Kawakita Toshio runs a toy store in Kiyosumishirakawa, Tokyo, and started accepting digital payments - both card and app-based - in 2018, but 99% of his transactions are still in cash. Transaction charges and a lack of customer demand mean few shops in his area accept cashless payments, he says. Many owners are also from older generations and not au fait with digital processes. “You need at least a bit of technical literacy,” he says. “I’m an exception because I can use computers. For other people from my generation, it’s a hurdle.”

Japanese businesses are also drowning in paperwork, exemplified by the fact that fax is still widely used in Japan. Every year companies have to fill out multiple forms for each employee, including for tax pensions and insurance and everything from setting up new businesses to transferring property requires paperwork to be signed off by a notary.