Questões de Vestibular: Língua Inglesa

Leia o texto a seguir para responder à questão.

Forest fires: the good and the bad

Every year it seems like there’s another disastrous wildfire in the American West. In 2018, nearly 9 million acres were burned in the US alone. Uncontrolled fires often started accidentally by people, rampage and decimate forests. F

or most people, a forest fire is synonymous with disaster. But there are some kinds of forest fires that actually benefit the environment.

A controlled burn is a wildfire that people set intentionally for a specific purpose. Well-thought-out and wellmanaged controlled burns can be incredibly beneficial for forest management—in part because they can help stop an out-of-control wildfire. The technique is called backburning, and it involves setting a controlled fire in the path of the approaching wildfire. All the flammable material is burnt up and extinguished. When the wildfire approaches, there’s no more fuel left for it to keep going, and it dies out.

Controlled burns are also used to prevent forest fires. Even before human involvement, natural, low-intensity wildfires occurred every few years to burn up fuel, plant debris, and dead trees, making way for young, healthy trees and vegetation to thrive. That new growth in turn supports forest wildlife. Forest managers are now replicating this natural strategy when appropriate, starting manageable, slow-burning fires to make room for new life that will help keep the forest healthy in the long term.

The same method is one of WWF’s strategies for maintaining grassland habitats in the Northern Great Plains. Working with partners such as the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, WWF has intentionally burned hundreds of acres of prairie land to revitalize these key habitats. The fire burns off tall, aggressive vegetation that isn’t as hospitable to wildlife, and makes room for new growth that attracts bison, birds, and prairie dogs.

This doesn’t mean all intentional wildfires are good – far from it. Many of the fires intentionally set for agriculture and land clearing are at best ill-advised, and at worst devastating. Slash and burn fires are set every day to destroy large sections of forests. Of course, these forests don’t just remove trees; they kill and displace wildlife, alter water cycles and soil fertility, and endanger the lives and livelihoods of local communities. They also can rage out of control. In 1997, fires set intentionally to clear forests in Indonesia escalated into one of the largest wildfires in recorded history. Hundreds of people died; millions of acres burned; already at-risk species like orangutans perished by the hundreds; and a smoke and ash haze hung over southeast Asia for months, reducing visibility and causing acute health conditions.

That’s exactly why WWF helps governments around the world crack down on slash and burn deforestation. WWF also works with farmers and companies to stop unnecessary agricultural burns. And when our scientists think fire could be the best solution for revitalizing wild areas, we bring the right experts to the table to study the situation and come up with a plan.

All fire is risky. To minimize that risk as much as possible, controlled burns must be well-considered, wellplanned, and ignited and maintained by trained professionals. The bottom line? Fire can be a tool for conservation, but only when used the right way.

Disponível em: https://www.worldwildlife.org/stories/forest-fires-the-good-and-the-bad. Acesso em: 08 out. 2019

Leia o texto a seguir para responder à questão.

Forest fires: the good and the bad

Every year it seems like there’s another disastrous wildfire in the American West. In 2018, nearly 9 million acres were burned in the US alone. Uncontrolled fires often started accidentally by people, rampage and decimate forests. F

or most people, a forest fire is synonymous with disaster. But there are some kinds of forest fires that actually benefit the environment.

A controlled burn is a wildfire that people set intentionally for a specific purpose. Well-thought-out and wellmanaged controlled burns can be incredibly beneficial for forest management—in part because they can help stop an out-of-control wildfire. The technique is called backburning, and it involves setting a controlled fire in the path of the approaching wildfire. All the flammable material is burnt up and extinguished. When the wildfire approaches, there’s no more fuel left for it to keep going, and it dies out.

Controlled burns are also used to prevent forest fires. Even before human involvement, natural, low-intensity wildfires occurred every few years to burn up fuel, plant debris, and dead trees, making way for young, healthy trees and vegetation to thrive. That new growth in turn supports forest wildlife. Forest managers are now replicating this natural strategy when appropriate, starting manageable, slow-burning fires to make room for new life that will help keep the forest healthy in the long term.

The same method is one of WWF’s strategies for maintaining grassland habitats in the Northern Great Plains. Working with partners such as the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, WWF has intentionally burned hundreds of acres of prairie land to revitalize these key habitats. The fire burns off tall, aggressive vegetation that isn’t as hospitable to wildlife, and makes room for new growth that attracts bison, birds, and prairie dogs.

This doesn’t mean all intentional wildfires are good – far from it. Many of the fires intentionally set for agriculture and land clearing are at best ill-advised, and at worst devastating. Slash and burn fires are set every day to destroy large sections of forests. Of course, these forests don’t just remove trees; they kill and displace wildlife, alter water cycles and soil fertility, and endanger the lives and livelihoods of local communities. They also can rage out of control. In 1997, fires set intentionally to clear forests in Indonesia escalated into one of the largest wildfires in recorded history. Hundreds of people died; millions of acres burned; already at-risk species like orangutans perished by the hundreds; and a smoke and ash haze hung over southeast Asia for months, reducing visibility and causing acute health conditions.

That’s exactly why WWF helps governments around the world crack down on slash and burn deforestation. WWF also works with farmers and companies to stop unnecessary agricultural burns. And when our scientists think fire could be the best solution for revitalizing wild areas, we bring the right experts to the table to study the situation and come up with a plan.

All fire is risky. To minimize that risk as much as possible, controlled burns must be well-considered, wellplanned, and ignited and maintained by trained professionals. The bottom line? Fire can be a tool for conservation, but only when used the right way.

Disponível em: https://www.worldwildlife.org/stories/forest-fires-the-good-and-the-bad. Acesso em: 08 out. 2019

T 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. Butafter 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

T 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. Butafter 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

T 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. Butafter 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

O mundo como pode ser: uma outra globalização

Podemos pensar na construção de um outro mundo a partir de uma globalização mais humana. As bases materiais do período atual são, entre outras, a unicidade da técnica, a convergência dos momentos e o conhecimento do planeta. É nessas bases técnicas que o grande capital se apoia para construir uma globalização perversa. Mas essas mesmas bases técnicas poderão servir a outros objetivos, se forem postas a serviço de outros fundamentos sociais e políticos. Parece que as condições históricas do fim do século XX apontavam para esta última possibilidade. Tais novas condições tanto se dão no plano empírico quanto no plano teórico.

Considerando o que atualmente se verifica no plano empírico, podemos, em primeiro lugar, reconhecer um certo número de fatos novos indicativos da emergência de uma nova história. O primeiro desses fenômenos é a enorme mistura de povos, raças, culturas, gostos, em todos os continentes. A isso se acrescente, graças ao progresso da informação, a “mistura” de filosofia, em detrimento do racionalismo europeu. Um outro dado de nossa era, indicativo da possibilidade de mudanças, é a produção de uma população aglomerada em áreas cada vez menores, o que permite um ainda maior dinamismo àquela mistura entre pessoas e filosofias. As massas, de que falava Ortega y Gasset na primeira metade do século (A rebelião das massas, 1937), ganham uma nova qualidade em virtude de sua aglomeração exponencial e de sua diversificação. Trata-se da existência de uma verdadeira sociodiversidade, historicamente muito mais significativa que a própria biodiversidade. Junte-se a esses fatos a emergência de uma cultura popular que se serve dos meios técnicos antes exclusivos da cultura de massas, permitindo-lhe exercer sobre esta última uma verdadeira revanche ou vingança.

É sobre tais alicerces que se edifica o discurso da escassez, afinal descoberta pelas massas. A população, aglomerada em poucos pontos da superfície da Terra, constitui uma das bases de reconstrução e de sobrevivência das relações locais, abrindo a possiblidade de utilização, ao serviço dos homens, do sistema técnico atual.

No plano teórico, o que verificamos é a possiblidade de produção de um novo discurso, de uma nova metanarrativa, um grande relato. Esse novo discurso ganha relevância pelo fato de que, pela primeira vez na história do homem, se pode constatar a existência de uma universalidade empírica. A universalidade deixa de ser apenas uma elaboração abstrata na mente dos filósofos para resultar da experiência ordinária de cada pessoa. De tal modo, em mundo datado como o nosso, a explicação do acontecer pode ser feita a partir de categorias de uma história concreta. É isso, também, que permite conhecer as possiblidade existentes e escrever uma nova história.

SANTOS, Milton. Por uma outra globalização. 13. ed. São Paulo: Record, 2006. p. 20-21. (Adaptado).