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0726263E-B9 Es correcto decir que el texto trata de un programa
CE6EEAC5-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019FácilEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
As a concluding note, the author acknowledges that, after leaving social media, sheCE6BF18E-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019FácilEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
Considering the idea of living a “full life”, Bianca Brooks believes that the fast and superficial rhythm of today’s reality may prevent us fromCE68F1D9-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
The author thinks that always being on social media may reduce the holiness of intimate experiences and she exemplifies that by describing her attitudeCE65F1A3-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019DifícilEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
As to the reasons that lead people to being so much on social media, the author raises the hypothesis that it might be related to a world in which people tend to feelCE6311EB-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
The author states that people are so much into social media that it hasCE600458-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019FácilEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
For the author herself, Twitter was the platform for important things in her life, including theCE5C4418-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
The author states that for millennials, social media has become so much part of their lives that somehow it comes to beCE59415D-B8 Inglês
Interpretação de texto | Reading comprehensionUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosT E X T
I Used to Fear Being a Nobody. Then I Left
Social Media.
By Bianca Brooks
“What’s happening?”
I stare blankly at the little box as I try to think of something clever for my first tweet. I settle on what’s at the top of my mind: “My only #fear is being a nobody.” How could I know this exchange would begin a dialogue that would continue nearly every day for the next nine years of my life?
I began using Twitter in 2010 as a newly minted high school freshman. Though it began as a hub for my quirky adolescent thoughts, over the years it became an archive of my emotional and intellectual voice — a kind of virtual display for the evolution of my politics and artistic identity. But after nine years, it was time to close the archive. My wanting to share my every waking thought became eclipsed by a desire for an increasingly rare commodity — a private life.
Though I thought disappearing from social media would be as simple as logging off, my refusal to post anything caused a bit of a stir among my small but loyal following. I began to receive emails from strangers asking me where I had gone and when I would return. One message read: “Not to be over familiar, but you have to come back eventually. You’re a writer after all. How will we read your writing?” Another follower inquired, “Where will you go?”
The truth is I have not gone anywhere. I am, in fact, more present than ever
Over time, I have begun to sense these messages reveal more than a lack of respect for privacy. I realize that to many millennials, a life without a social media presence is not simply a private life; it is no life at all: We possess a widespread, genuine fear of obscurity.
When I consider the near-decade I have spent on social media, this worry makes sense. As with many in my generation, Twitter was my entry into conversations happening on a global scale; long before my byline graced any publication, tweeting was how I felt a part of the world. Twitter functions much like an echo chamber dependent on likes and retweets, and gaining notoriety is as easy as finding someone to agree with you. For years I poured my opinions, musings and outrage onto my timeline, believing I held an indispensable place in a vital sociopolitical experiment.
But these passionate, public observations were born of more than just a desire to speak my mind — I was measuring my individual worth in constant visibility. Implicit in my follower’s question “Where will you go?” is the resounding question “How will we know where you’ve gone?” Privacy is considered a small exchange for the security of being well known and well liked.
After all, a private life boasts no location markers or story updates. The idea that the happenings of our lives would be constrained to our immediate families, friends and real-life communities is akin to social death in a world measured by followers, views, likes and shares.
I grow weary when I think of this as the new normal for what is considered to be a fruitful personal life. Social media is no longer a mere public extension of our private socialization; it has become a replacement for it. What happens to our humanity when we relegate our real lives to props for the performance of our virtual ones?
For one, a predominantly online existence can lull us into a dubious sense of having enacted concrete change, simply because of a tweet or Instagram post. As “hashtag activism” has obscured longstanding traditions of assembly and protest, there’s concern that a failure to transition from the keyboard to in-person organization will effectively stall or kill the momentum of political movements. (See: Occupy Wall Street.)
The sanctity of our most intimate experiences is also diminished. My grandfather Charles Shaw — a notable musician whose wisdoms and jazz scene tales I often shared on Twitter — passed away last year. Rather than take adequate time to privately mourn the loss of his giant influence in my life alongside those who loved him most, I quickly posted a lengthy tribute to him to my followers. At the time I thought, “How will they remember him if I don’t acknowledge his passing?”
Perhaps at the root of this anxiety over being forgotten is an urgent question of how one ought to form a legacy; with the rise of automation, a widening wealth gap and an unstable political climate, it is easy to feel unimportant. It is almost as if the world is too big and we are much too small to excel in it in any meaningful way. We feel we need as many people as possible to witness our lives, so as not to be left out of a story that is being written too fast by people much more significant than ourselves.
“The secret of a full life is to live and relate to others as if they might not be there tomorrow, as if you might not be there tomorrow,” the writer Anais Nin said. “This feeling has become a rarity, and rarer every day now that we have reached a hastier and more superficial rhythm, now that we believe we are in touch with a greater amount of people. This is the illusion which might cheat us of being in touch deeply with the one breathing next to us.”
I think of those words and at once any fear of obscurity is eclipsed by much deeper ones — the fear of forgoing the sacred moments of life, of never learning to be completely alone, of not bearing witness to the incredible lives of those who surround me.
I observe the world around me. It is big and moving fast. “What’s happening?” I think to myself.
I’m just beginning to find out.
From:www.nytimes.com/Oct. 1, 2019
The author was actively involved with social media forCD98F444-B8 Português
Interpretação de TextosUECE · 2019DifícilEntre para guardar nos favoritos
ANTUNES, Arnaldo; BROWN, Carlinhos; MONTE, Marisa.
Diáspora. In: Tribalistas. Rio de Janeiro: Phonomotor
Records Universal Music, 2017. Disponível em: https://www.letras.mus.br/tribalistas/diaspora/.
Acesso em: 08 de set. de 2019.
Os versos “You, where are you?/ Where are you?” (linhas 69-71), cuja tradução literal para o português é Você, onde está você? / Onde está você?, encontram-se em língua inglesa porqueCD9608A2-B8 Português
SintaxeUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosANTUNES, Arnaldo; BROWN, Carlinhos; MONTE, Marisa.
Diáspora. In: Tribalistas. Rio de Janeiro: Phonomotor
Records Universal Music, 2017. Disponível em: https://www.letras.mus.br/tribalistas/diaspora/.
Acesso em: 08 de set. de 2019.
Observe a estrutura sintática da primeira estrofe da letra da canção Diáspora (linhas 56-60) e atente para as seguintes afirmações:I. Os sujeitos dos verbos perecer (“pereceram” — linha 57) e viver (“vivem” — linha 59) se encontram na ordem inversa e correspondem a um mesmo referente que é iniciado pela expressão “os que” (linhas 58 e 59).II. Considerando “a tormenta” (linha 56) como um fenômeno da natureza, é correto afirmar que a referida expressão é sujeito do verbo acalmar (“Acalmou” — linha 56).III. O sujeito do verbo viver (“vivem” — linha 59) pode ser interpretado como simples ou composto, dependendo da interpretação da expressão “[...] os que por um amor tremeram / E dos céus os destinos esperaram” (linhas 59-60).É correto o que se diz emCD930B4A-B8 Português
Coesão e coerênciaUECE · 2019DifícilEntre para guardar nos favoritosANTUNES, Arnaldo; BROWN, Carlinhos; MONTE, Marisa.
Diáspora. In: Tribalistas. Rio de Janeiro: Phonomotor
Records Universal Music, 2017. Disponível em: https://www.letras.mus.br/tribalistas/diaspora/.
Acesso em: 08 de set. de 2019.
A textualidade marca-se por diversos fatores que se integram, a fim de instituir sentido ao conjunto de enunciados, transformando-os em um texto. Assim, na letra da canção Diáspora, háI. intertextualidade, porque podemos depreender a presença de outros textos, por exemplo, textos bíblicos (linhas 61-62; 65- 66) e o poema Vozes d’África, de Castro Alves (linhas 86-95).II. coerência, porque há uma lógica interna no texto quando os autores relacionam a dispersão do povo judeu à saga dos imigrantes.III. informatividade, porque as informações apresentam dados novos para a atualização da questão dada, a partir de um tema já apresentado inicialmente.Estão corretas as complementações contidas emCD90387C-B8 Português
Interpretação de TextosUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosANTUNES, Arnaldo; BROWN, Carlinhos; MONTE, Marisa.
Diáspora. In: Tribalistas. Rio de Janeiro: Phonomotor
Records Universal Music, 2017. Disponível em: https://www.letras.mus.br/tribalistas/diaspora/.
Acesso em: 08 de set. de 2019.
O fato de os autores da letra da canção Diáspora utilizarem o verbo em primeira pessoa do plural, na expressão “Atravessamos o mar Egeu” (linha 61), indica intenção deCD8D756F-B8 Português
Interpretação de TextosUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosANTUNES, Arnaldo; BROWN, Carlinhos; MONTE, Marisa.
Diáspora. In: Tribalistas. Rio de Janeiro: Phonomotor
Records Universal Music, 2017. Disponível em: https://www.letras.mus.br/tribalistas/diaspora/.
Acesso em: 08 de set. de 2019.
Observe a seguinte definição de diáspora, publicada em FERREIRA, A. B. H. Dicionário Aurélio escolar da língua portuguesa. Rio de Janeiro: Editora Nova Fronteira, 1988, p. 220: “Sf 1. A dispersão dos judeus no decorrer dos séculos. 2. P. ext. Dispersão de povos, por motivos políticos ou religiosos, em virtude de perseguição de grupos dominadores intolerantes”. Considerando a referida definição e a letra da canção, atente para as seguintes afirmações:I. A história narrada centra-se em questões religiosas, elegendo o mar Egeu como local de acontecimento para a separação dos povos.II. A história narrada vai além do texto bíblico para a compreensão do drama dos refugiados, a partir de diversas questões políticas e/ou religiosas.III. A questão dos refugiados é abordada a partir da inserção de outros lugares que, na contemporaneidade, também têm problemas políticos e/ou religiosos.Estão corretas as assertivas contidas emCD896411-B8 Português
Interpretação de TextosUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosANTUNES, Arnaldo; BROWN, Carlinhos; MONTE, Marisa.
Diáspora. In: Tribalistas. Rio de Janeiro: Phonomotor
Records Universal Music, 2017. Disponível em: https://www.letras.mus.br/tribalistas/diaspora/.
Acesso em: 08 de set. de 2019.
É objetivo da letra da canção DiásporaCD86986D-B8 Português
PontuaçãoUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritos
CAMPANERUT, Camila. Obras de Monteiro Lobato entram
para domínio público. Brasília: Ministério da Cidadania,
2019. Disponível em: http://cultura.gov.br/obras-de-
monteiro-lobato-entram-para-dominio-publico/. Acesso em:
30/08/2019.
Com relação à vírgula utilizada antes da expressão “[...], autor de mais de 50 livros que mexeram, como ninguém, com o imaginário de crianças e jovens de todo o Brasil.” (linhas 4-7), é INCORRETO afirmar queCD83C259-B8 Português
Coesão e coerênciaUECE · 2019DifícilEntre para guardar nos favoritosCAMPANERUT, Camila. Obras de Monteiro Lobato entram
para domínio público. Brasília: Ministério da Cidadania,
2019. Disponível em: http://cultura.gov.br/obras-de-
monteiro-lobato-entram-para-dominio-publico/. Acesso em:
30/08/2019.
No primeiro parágrafo do texto 1, há vários termos ou expressões para se referir a Monteiro Lobato, tais como ele (linha 1), esse escritor (linha 4), personalidade (linha 7) e autor (linha 4). Com relação a esse aspecto, atente para as seguintes assertivas:I. O recurso de substituição de termos ou expressões foi utilizado para garantir a manutenção temática.II. A substituição de termos ou expressões funcionou como um elemento de coesão textual.III. A referência ao autor Monteiro Lobato, realizada de várias formas diferentes, tornou o texto repetitivo.Estão corretas somente as assertivas contidas emCD80E525-B8 Português
Interpretação de TextosUECE · 2019MédioEntre para guardar nos favoritosCAMPANERUT, Camila. Obras de Monteiro Lobato entram
para domínio público. Brasília: Ministério da Cidadania,
2019. Disponível em: http://cultura.gov.br/obras-de-
monteiro-lobato-entram-para-dominio-publico/. Acesso em:
30/08/2019.
Monteiro Lobato é um importante escritor da literatura brasileira, principalmente, pelos seus livros escritos para o público infanto-juvenil. Considerando o autor e seu contexto histórico, atente para as seguintes afirmações:I. Monteiro Lobato também criou obras que tratam de questões sociais, o que faz com que se possa enquadrá-lo no Movimento Modernista.II. Monteiro Lobato retratou, em algumas de suas obras, questões relacionadas à Geografia, Matemática e Língua Portuguesa.III. As obras infanto-juvenis de Monteiro Lobato revolucionaram a literatura para este público porque traziam a imagem de crianças à frente de sua época.Está correto o que se afirma emCD7E2531-B8 Português
Interpretação de TextosUECE · 2019FácilEntre para guardar nos favoritosCAMPANERUT, Camila. Obras de Monteiro Lobato entram
para domínio público. Brasília: Ministério da Cidadania,
2019. Disponível em: http://cultura.gov.br/obras-de-
monteiro-lobato-entram-para-dominio-publico/. Acesso em:
30/08/2019.
O texto 1 defende um ponto de vista e, para isso, apresenta fatos e opiniões. Sobre esse aspecto, assinale a opção que se apresenta como opinião utilizada para defender o ponto de vista do autor.CD7B7737-B8 Português
Interpretação de TextosUECE · 2019FácilEntre para guardar nos favoritosCAMPANERUT, Camila. Obras de Monteiro Lobato entram
para domínio público. Brasília: Ministério da Cidadania,
2019. Disponível em: http://cultura.gov.br/obras-de-
monteiro-lobato-entram-para-dominio-publico/. Acesso em:
30/08/2019.
Desde 1º de janeiro de 2019, não há mais necessidade de pedir autorização para utilizar as obras de Monteiro Lobato, porque