Instituição
558 questões de Universidade Presbiteriana Mackenzie, de 2010 a 2019. Cada uma tem página própria, com enunciado completo, alternativas e gabarito — e dá para responder na própria página.
Texto para a questão
A foto acima tirada em uma das comemorações ao Dia do Trabalho, durante o
Estado Novo (1937-45), evidencia o apoio das classes trabalhadoras ao governo
de Getúlio Vargas. A simpatia a esse governante deve-se
Texto referente à questão.
Pesquisadora sobre fogo na Amazônia explica real situação da floresta.
A pesquisadora sênior da Universidade de Oxford, Dra. Erika Berenguer, é uma das maiores referências sobre fogo em florestas tropicais do mundo. Ela relata que um “aspecto importante a ser considerado é que incêndios na floresta amazônica não ocorrem de maneira natural – eles precisam de uma fonte de ignição antrópica. Ao contrário de outros ecossistemas, como o Cerrado, a Amazônia não evoluiu com o fogo e esse não faz parte de sua dinâmica. Isso significa que quando a Amazônia pega fogo, uma parte imensa de suas árvores morrem, porque elas não têm nenhum tipo de proteção ao fogo. Ao morrerem, essas árvores então se decompõem liberando para a atmosfera todo o carbono que elas armazenavam, contribuindo assim para as mudanças climáticas. O problema nisso é que a Amazônia armazena muito carbono nas suas árvores - a floresta inteira estoca o equivalente a 100 anos de emissões de CO2 dos EUA. Então queimar a floresta significa colocar muito CO2 de volta na atmosfera.”
Disponível em: https://ciclovivo.com.br/planeta/meio-ambiente/pesquisadora-fogoamazonia-explica-real-situacao-floresta/ Acesso em 29 set. 2019
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How to Make Friends While Traveling Solo
Even in the best cases, traveling alone can get lonely. Here’s how to connect safely with the people you meet along the way.
Select the alternative that gives the correct meanings for these words from the text:
A – Feature
B – Nearby
C – Environment
Read the text and answer question
How to Make Friends While Traveling Solo
Even in the best cases, traveling alone can get lonely. Here’s how to connect safely with the people you meet along the way.
Texto para a questão
Read the text and asnwer questions:
HOME
They rose up like men. We saw them. Like men they stood.
We shouldn’t have been anywhere near that place. Like most farmland outside Lotus, Georgia, this here one had plenty scary warning signs. The threats hung from wire mesh fences with wooden stakes every fifty or so feet. But when we saw a crawl space that some animal had dug—a coyote maybe, or a coon dog—we couldn’t resist. Just kids we were. The grass was shoulder high for her and waist high for me so, looking out for snakes, we crawled through it on our bellies. The reward was worth the harm grass juice and clouds of gnats did to our eyes, because there right in front of us, about fifty yards off, they stood like men. Their raised hooves crashing and striking, their manes tossing back from wild white eyes. They bit each other like dogs but when they stood, reared up on their hind legs, their forelegs around the withers of the other, we held our breath in wonder. One was rust-colored, the other deep black, both sunny with sweat. The neighs were not as frightening as the silence following a kick of hind legs into the lifted lips of the opponent. Nearby, colts and mares, indifferent, nibbled grass or looked away. Then it stopped. The rust-colored one dropped his head and pawed the ground while the winner loped off in an arc, nudging the mares before him.
As we elbowed back through the grass looking for the dug-out place, avoiding the line of parked trucks beyond, we lost our way. Although it took forever to re-sight the fence, neither of us panicked until we heard voices, urgent but low. I grabbed her arm and put a finger to my lips. Never lifting our heads, just peeping through the grass, we saw them pull a body from a wheelbarrow and throw it into a hole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could break through the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of the men doing the burying, only their trousers; but we saw the edge of a spade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself. When she saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. I hugged her shoulders tight and tried to pull her trembling into my own bones because, as a brother four years older, I thought I could handle it. The men were long gone and the moon was a cantaloupe by the time we felt safe enough to disturb even one blade of grass and move on our stomachs, searching for the scooped-out part under the fence. When we got home we expected to be whipped or at least scolded for staying out so late, but the grown-ups did not notice us. Some disturbance had their attention.
Since you’re set on telling my story, whatever you think and whatever you write down, know this: I really forgot about the burial. I only remembered the horses. They were so beautiful. So brutal. And they stood like men.
SOURCE: Excerpted from MORRISON, Toni. Home (2012), Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2012.
Read the text and asnwer questions:
HOME
They rose up like men. We saw them. Like men they stood.
We shouldn’t have been anywhere near that place. Like most farmland outside Lotus, Georgia, this here one had plenty scary warning signs. The threats hung from wire mesh fences with wooden stakes every fifty or so feet. But when we saw a crawl space that some animal had dug—a coyote maybe, or a coon dog—we couldn’t resist. Just kids we were. The grass was shoulder high for her and waist high for me so, looking out for snakes, we crawled through it on our bellies. The reward was worth the harm grass juice and clouds of gnats did to our eyes, because there right in front of us, about fifty yards off, they stood like men. Their raised hooves crashing and striking, their manes tossing back from wild white eyes. They bit each other like dogs but when they stood, reared up on their hind legs, their forelegs around the withers of the other, we held our breath in wonder. One was rust-colored, the other deep black, both sunny with sweat. The neighs were not as frightening as the silence following a kick of hind legs into the lifted lips of the opponent. Nearby, colts and mares, indifferent, nibbled grass or looked away. Then it stopped. The rust-colored one dropped his head and pawed the ground while the winner loped off in an arc, nudging the mares before him.
As we elbowed back through the grass looking for the dug-out place, avoiding the line of parked trucks beyond, we lost our way. Although it took forever to re-sight the fence, neither of us panicked until we heard voices, urgent but low. I grabbed her arm and put a finger to my lips. Never lifting our heads, just peeping through the grass, we saw them pull a body from a wheelbarrow and throw it into a hole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could break through the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of the men doing the burying, only their trousers; but we saw the edge of a spade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself. When she saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. I hugged her shoulders tight and tried to pull her trembling into my own bones because, as a brother four years older, I thought I could handle it. The men were long gone and the moon was a cantaloupe by the time we felt safe enough to disturb even one blade of grass and move on our stomachs, searching for the scooped-out part under the fence. When we got home we expected to be whipped or at least scolded for staying out so late, but the grown-ups did not notice us. Some disturbance had their attention.
Since you’re set on telling my story, whatever you think and whatever you write down, know this: I really forgot about the burial. I only remembered the horses. They were so beautiful. So brutal. And they stood like men.
SOURCE: Excerpted from MORRISON, Toni. Home (2012), Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2012.
