CAPF | English | MINI MOCK

Direction: Read the passages carefully and choose the best answer to each question out of the four alternatives.

Unquestionably, a literary life is for the most part an unhappy life, because, if you have genius, you must suffer the penalty of genius; and if you have only talent there are so many cares and worries incidental to the circumstances of men of letters, as to make life exceedingly miserable. Besides the pangs of composition, and the continuous disappointment which a true artist feels at his inability to reveal himself, there is the ever-recurring difficulty of gaining the public ear. Young writers are buoyed up by the hope and the belief, that they have only to throw that poem at the world’s feet to get back in return the laurel-crown: that they have only to push that novel into print to be acknowledged at once as a new light in literature. You can never convince a young author that the editors of magazines and the publishers of books are a practical body of men, who are by no means frantically anxious about placing the best literature before the public. Nay, that, for the most part, they are mere brokers, who conduct their business on the hardest lines of a Profit and Loss account. But supposing your book fairly launches, its perils are only beginning. You have to run the gauntlet of the critics. To a young author, again, this seems to be a terrible order. When you are a little older, you will find that criticism is not much more serious than the bye-play of clowns in a circus, when they beat about the ring the victim with bladders slung at the end of long poles. A time comes in the life of every author when he regards critics as comical, rather than formidable; and goes his way unheeding. But there are sensitive souls that yield under the chastisement, and perhaps, after suffering much silent torture, abandon the profession of the pen for ever. Keats, perhaps, is the saddest example of a fine spirit hounded to death by savage criticism; because, whatever his biographers may aver, that furious attack of Gifford and Terry undoubtedly expedited his death. But no doubt there are hundreds who suffer keenly from hostile and unscrupulous criticism; and who have to bear that suffering in silence, because it is a cardinal principle in literature that the most unwise thing in the world for an author is to take public notice of criticism in the way of defending himself. Silence is the only safeguard, as it is the only dignified protest against insult and offence.

Direction: Read the passages carefully and choose the best answer to each question out of the four alternatives.

Unquestionably, a literary life is for the most part an unhappy life, because, if you have genius, you must suffer the penalty of genius; and if you have only talent there are so many cares and worries incidental to the circumstances of men of letters, as to make life exceedingly miserable. Besides the pangs of composition, and the continuous disappointment which a true artist feels at his inability to reveal himself, there is the ever-recurring difficulty of gaining the public ear. Young writers are buoyed up by the hope and the belief, that they have only to throw that poem at the world’s feet to get back in return the laurel-crown: that they have only to push that novel into print to be acknowledged at once as a new light in literature. You can never convince a young author that the editors of magazines and the publishers of books are a practical body of men, who are by no means frantically anxious about placing the best literature before the public. Nay, that, for the most part, they are mere brokers, who conduct their business on the hardest lines of a Profit and Loss account. But supposing your book fairly launches, its perils are only beginning. You have to run the gauntlet of the critics. To a young author, again, this seems to be a terrible order. When you are a little older, you will find that criticism is not much more serious than the bye-play of clowns in a circus, when they beat about the ring the victim with bladders slung at the end of long poles. A time comes in the life of every author when he regards critics as comical, rather than formidable; and goes his way unheeding. But there are sensitive souls that yield under the chastisement, and perhaps, after suffering much silent torture, abandon the profession of the pen for ever. Keats, perhaps, is the saddest example of a fine spirit hounded to death by savage criticism; because, whatever his biographers may aver, that furious attack of Gifford and Terry undoubtedly expedited his death. But no doubt there are hundreds who suffer keenly from hostile and unscrupulous criticism; and who have to bear that suffering in silence, because it is a cardinal principle in literature that the most unwise thing in the world for an author is to take public notice of criticism in the way of defending himself. Silence is the only safeguard, as it is the only dignified protest against insult and offence.

Direction: Read the passages carefully and choose the best answer to each question out of the four alternatives.

Unquestionably, a literary life is for the most part an unhappy life, because, if you have genius, you must suffer the penalty of genius; and if you have only talent there are so many cares and worries incidental to the circumstances of men of letters, as to make life exceedingly miserable. Besides the pangs of composition, and the continuous disappointment which a true artist feels at his inability to reveal himself, there is the ever-recurring difficulty of gaining the public ear. Young writers are buoyed up by the hope and the belief, that they have only to throw that poem at the world’s feet to get back in return the laurel-crown: that they have only to push that novel into print to be acknowledged at once as a new light in literature. You can never convince a young author that the editors of magazines and the publishers of books are a practical body of men, who are by no means frantically anxious about placing the best literature before the public. Nay, that, for the most part, they are mere brokers, who conduct their business on the hardest lines of a Profit and Loss account. But supposing your book fairly launches, its perils are only beginning. You have to run the gauntlet of the critics. To a young author, again, this seems to be a terrible order. When you are a little older, you will find that criticism is not much more serious than the bye-play of clowns in a circus, when they beat about the ring the victim with bladders slung at the end of long poles. A time comes in the life of every author when he regards critics as comical, rather than formidable; and goes his way unheeding. But there are sensitive souls that yield under the chastisement, and perhaps, after suffering much silent torture, abandon the profession of the pen for ever. Keats, perhaps, is the saddest example of a fine spirit hounded to death by savage criticism; because, whatever his biographers may aver, that furious attack of Gifford and Terry undoubtedly expedited his death. But no doubt there are hundreds who suffer keenly from hostile and unscrupulous criticism; and who have to bear that suffering in silence, because it is a cardinal principle in literature that the most unwise thing in the world for an author is to take public notice of criticism in the way of defending himself. Silence is the only safeguard, as it is the only dignified protest against insult and offence.

Direction: Read the passages carefully and choose the best answer to each question out of the four alternatives.

Unquestionably, a literary life is for the most part an unhappy life, because, if you have genius, you must suffer the penalty of genius; and if you have only talent there are so many cares and worries incidental to the circumstances of men of letters, as to make life exceedingly miserable. Besides the pangs of composition, and the continuous disappointment which a true artist feels at his inability to reveal himself, there is the ever-recurring difficulty of gaining the public ear. Young writers are buoyed up by the hope and the belief, that they have only to throw that poem at the world’s feet to get back in return the laurel-crown: that they have only to push that novel into print to be acknowledged at once as a new light in literature. You can never convince a young author that the editors of magazines and the publishers of books are a practical body of men, who are by no means frantically anxious about placing the best literature before the public. Nay, that, for the most part, they are mere brokers, who conduct their business on the hardest lines of a Profit and Loss account. But supposing your book fairly launches, its perils are only beginning. You have to run the gauntlet of the critics. To a young author, again, this seems to be a terrible order. When you are a little older, you will find that criticism is not much more serious than the bye-play of clowns in a circus, when they beat about the ring the victim with bladders slung at the end of long poles. A time comes in the life of every author when he regards critics as comical, rather than formidable; and goes his way unheeding. But there are sensitive souls that yield under the chastisement, and perhaps, after suffering much silent torture, abandon the profession of the pen for ever. Keats, perhaps, is the saddest example of a fine spirit hounded to death by savage criticism; because, whatever his biographers may aver, that furious attack of Gifford and Terry undoubtedly expedited his death. But no doubt there are hundreds who suffer keenly from hostile and unscrupulous criticism; and who have to bear that suffering in silence, because it is a cardinal principle in literature that the most unwise thing in the world for an author is to take public notice of criticism in the way of defending himself. Silence is the only safeguard, as it is the only dignified protest against insult and offence.

Direction: Read the passages carefully and choose the best answer to each question out of the four alternatives.

Unquestionably, a literary life is for the most part an unhappy life, because, if you have genius, you must suffer the penalty of genius; and if you have only talent there are so many cares and worries incidental to the circumstances of men of letters, as to make life exceedingly miserable. Besides the pangs of composition, and the continuous disappointment which a true artist feels at his inability to reveal himself, there is the ever-recurring difficulty of gaining the public ear. Young writers are buoyed up by the hope and the belief, that they have only to throw that poem at the world’s feet to get back in return the laurel-crown: that they have only to push that novel into print to be acknowledged at once as a new light in literature. You can never convince a young author that the editors of magazines and the publishers of books are a practical body of men, who are by no means frantically anxious about placing the best literature before the public. Nay, that, for the most part, they are mere brokers, who conduct their business on the hardest lines of a Profit and Loss account. But supposing your book fairly launches, its perils are only beginning. You have to run the gauntlet of the critics. To a young author, again, this seems to be a terrible order. When you are a little older, you will find that criticism is not much more serious than the bye-play of clowns in a circus, when they beat about the ring the victim with bladders slung at the end of long poles. A time comes in the life of every author when he regards critics as comical, rather than formidable; and goes his way unheeding. But there are sensitive souls that yield under the chastisement, and perhaps, after suffering much silent torture, abandon the profession of the pen for ever. Keats, perhaps, is the saddest example of a fine spirit hounded to death by savage criticism; because, whatever his biographers may aver, that furious attack of Gifford and Terry undoubtedly expedited his death. But no doubt there are hundreds who suffer keenly from hostile and unscrupulous criticism; and who have to bear that suffering in silence, because it is a cardinal principle in literature that the most unwise thing in the world for an author is to take public notice of criticism in the way of defending himself. Silence is the only safeguard, as it is the only dignified protest against insult and offence.

Select the most appropriate option to substitute the underlined segment in the given sentence. If there is no need to substitute it, select No improvement.

Each item in this section has a sentence with three underlined parts labelled (A), (B) and (C). Read each sentence to find out whether there is any error in any underlined part and indicate your response in the answer sheet against the corresponding letter i.e. (A) or (B) or (C). If you find no error, your response should be indicated as (D).

Direction: Select the most appropriate meaning of the given idiom.

Direction: In the following question, out of the four alternatives, select the alternative which best expresses the meaning of the Idiom/Phrase.