LSAT Prep Test 86 - Reading Comprehension - Answers (No Explanations)

Along with Egypt and Sumer, the third major early Bronze Age civilization was the Indus Valley civilization, which flourished from 2600 B.C. to 900 B.C. In geographic size, the Indus Valley (5) civilization was the largest ancient urban civilization, bigger than pharaonic Egypt. Centered on the Indus River and the now dry Ghaggar-Hakra River, it comprised about 1,400 settlements across what is now Pakistan, Afghanistan, and northwestern India. (10) The Indus Valley civilization was long considered archaeologically uninteresting because of its ordinary urban architecture and lack of palaces or citadels, but recent excavations show the civilization to be without parallel in history, displaying characteristics not (15) elsewhere united in a single civilization.

The Indus Valley people, masters of urban planning, built brick cities on flood-proof terraces with grids of long, straight streets and the first urban sewer systems, made of masonry. No signs of dominant (20) rulers have been found, and the cities’ living quarters show little sign of class distinction, suggesting that their system of government was, at least in part, democratic. The civilization also apparently thrived without armies—there is, for example, no evidence of (25) weapon production.

The Indus Valley people were the first to cultivate rice and cotton, and they developed a carefully organized agricultural system to produce and distribute food. In addition, the Indus Valley civilization was (30) one of the ancient world’s top traders. Examples of its standardized weights have been found in many harbors around the Arabian Sea, and Sumerian tablets inscribed in 2300 B.C. provide evidence that the Indus Valley people maintained trade with Mesopotamia.

(35) The causes of the civilization’s decline, however, are not certain, and this has produced the most contention among scholars. A long-standing theory, one that today still inhabits history books, was proposed by British archaeologist Mortimer Wheeler (40) in the 1920s and points to a final massacre by marauding Indo-Aryan invaders. But, in addition to a lack of written evidence of such an event in any ancient Indian records, there is no archaeological evidence of battles within the cities. In fact, new (45) excavations show that Indo-Aryans were not even in the region at the time the massacre was alleged to have taken place. Archaeological evidence also shows a later resurgence of the civilization a substantial distance to the south of its original location. This (50) suggests that the Indus Valley people most likely relocated for catastrophic environmental reasons, with the large empire disintegrating into many regional cultures. Severe drought, of which there is evidence, may have made some lands unfarmable. Without (55) enough grain to feed the large urban populations, many of the Indus Valley civilization’s large cities would probably have been abandoned. Or, a massive earthquake in this seismically volatile region may have changed the course of rivers and disrupted many cities, (60) spurring a migration of refugees to the countryside.

Along with Egypt and Sumer, the third major early Bronze Age civilization was the Indus Valley civilization, which flourished from 2600 B.C. to 900 B.C. In geographic size, the Indus Valley (5) civilization was the largest ancient urban civilization, bigger than pharaonic Egypt. Centered on the Indus River and the now dry Ghaggar-Hakra River, it comprised about 1,400 settlements across what is now Pakistan, Afghanistan, and northwestern India. (10) The Indus Valley civilization was long considered archaeologically uninteresting because of its ordinary urban architecture and lack of palaces or citadels, but recent excavations show the civilization to be without parallel in history, displaying characteristics not (15) elsewhere united in a single civilization.

The Indus Valley people, masters of urban planning, built brick cities on flood-proof terraces with grids of long, straight streets and the first urban sewer systems, made of masonry. No signs of dominant (20) rulers have been found, and the cities’ living quarters show little sign of class distinction, suggesting that their system of government was, at least in part, democratic. The civilization also apparently thrived without armies—there is, for example, no evidence of (25) weapon production.

The Indus Valley people were the first to cultivate rice and cotton, and they developed a carefully organized agricultural system to produce and distribute food. In addition, the Indus Valley civilization was (30) one of the ancient world’s top traders. Examples of its standardized weights have been found in many harbors around the Arabian Sea, and Sumerian tablets inscribed in 2300 B.C. provide evidence that the Indus Valley people maintained trade with Mesopotamia.

(35) The causes of the civilization’s decline, however, are not certain, and this has produced the most contention among scholars. A long-standing theory, one that today still inhabits history books, was proposed by British archaeologist Mortimer Wheeler (40) in the 1920s and points to a final massacre by marauding Indo-Aryan invaders. But, in addition to a lack of written evidence of such an event in any ancient Indian records, there is no archaeological evidence of battles within the cities. In fact, new (45) excavations show that Indo-Aryans were not even in the region at the time the massacre was alleged to have taken place. Archaeological evidence also shows a later resurgence of the civilization a substantial distance to the south of its original location. This (50) suggests that the Indus Valley people most likely relocated for catastrophic environmental reasons, with the large empire disintegrating into many regional cultures. Severe drought, of which there is evidence, may have made some lands unfarmable. Without (55) enough grain to feed the large urban populations, many of the Indus Valley civilization’s large cities would probably have been abandoned. Or, a massive earthquake in this seismically volatile region may have changed the course of rivers and disrupted many cities, (60) spurring a migration of refugees to the countryside.

Along with Egypt and Sumer, the third major early Bronze Age civilization was the Indus Valley civilization, which flourished from 2600 B.C. to 900 B.C. In geographic size, the Indus Valley (5) civilization was the largest ancient urban civilization, bigger than pharaonic Egypt. Centered on the Indus River and the now dry Ghaggar-Hakra River, it comprised about 1,400 settlements across what is now Pakistan, Afghanistan, and northwestern India. (10) The Indus Valley civilization was long considered archaeologically uninteresting because of its ordinary urban architecture and lack of palaces or citadels, but recent excavations show the civilization to be without parallel in history, displaying characteristics not (15) elsewhere united in a single civilization.

The Indus Valley people, masters of urban planning, built brick cities on flood-proof terraces with grids of long, straight streets and the first urban sewer systems, made of masonry. No signs of dominant (20) rulers have been found, and the cities’ living quarters show little sign of class distinction, suggesting that their system of government was, at least in part, democratic. The civilization also apparently thrived without armies—there is, for example, no evidence of (25) weapon production.

The Indus Valley people were the first to cultivate rice and cotton, and they developed a carefully organized agricultural system to produce and distribute food. In addition, the Indus Valley civilization was (30) one of the ancient world’s top traders. Examples of its standardized weights have been found in many harbors around the Arabian Sea, and Sumerian tablets inscribed in 2300 B.C. provide evidence that the Indus Valley people maintained trade with Mesopotamia.

(35) The causes of the civilization’s decline, however, are not certain, and this has produced the most contention among scholars. A long-standing theory, one that today still inhabits history books, was proposed by British archaeologist Mortimer Wheeler (40) in the 1920s and points to a final massacre by marauding Indo-Aryan invaders. But, in addition to a lack of written evidence of such an event in any ancient Indian records, there is no archaeological evidence of battles within the cities. In fact, new (45) excavations show that Indo-Aryans were not even in the region at the time the massacre was alleged to have taken place. Archaeological evidence also shows a later resurgence of the civilization a substantial distance to the south of its original location. This (50) suggests that the Indus Valley people most likely relocated for catastrophic environmental reasons, with the large empire disintegrating into many regional cultures. Severe drought, of which there is evidence, may have made some lands unfarmable. Without (55) enough grain to feed the large urban populations, many of the Indus Valley civilization’s large cities would probably have been abandoned. Or, a massive earthquake in this seismically volatile region may have changed the course of rivers and disrupted many cities, (60) spurring a migration of refugees to the countryside.

Along with Egypt and Sumer, the third major early Bronze Age civilization was the Indus Valley civilization, which flourished from 2600 B.C. to 900 B.C. In geographic size, the Indus Valley (5) civilization was the largest ancient urban civilization, bigger than pharaonic Egypt. Centered on the Indus River and the now dry Ghaggar-Hakra River, it comprised about 1,400 settlements across what is now Pakistan, Afghanistan, and northwestern India. (10) The Indus Valley civilization was long considered archaeologically uninteresting because of its ordinary urban architecture and lack of palaces or citadels, but recent excavations show the civilization to be without parallel in history, displaying characteristics not (15) elsewhere united in a single civilization.

The Indus Valley people, masters of urban planning, built brick cities on flood-proof terraces with grids of long, straight streets and the first urban sewer systems, made of masonry. No signs of dominant (20) rulers have been found, and the cities’ living quarters show little sign of class distinction, suggesting that their system of government was, at least in part, democratic. The civilization also apparently thrived without armies—there is, for example, no evidence of (25) weapon production.

The Indus Valley people were the first to cultivate rice and cotton, and they developed a carefully organized agricultural system to produce and distribute food. In addition, the Indus Valley civilization was (30) one of the ancient world’s top traders. Examples of its standardized weights have been found in many harbors around the Arabian Sea, and Sumerian tablets inscribed in 2300 B.C. provide evidence that the Indus Valley people maintained trade with Mesopotamia.

(35) The causes of the civilization’s decline, however, are not certain, and this has produced the most contention among scholars. A long-standing theory, one that today still inhabits history books, was proposed by British archaeologist Mortimer Wheeler (40) in the 1920s and points to a final massacre by marauding Indo-Aryan invaders. But, in addition to a lack of written evidence of such an event in any ancient Indian records, there is no archaeological evidence of battles within the cities. In fact, new (45) excavations show that Indo-Aryans were not even in the region at the time the massacre was alleged to have taken place. Archaeological evidence also shows a later resurgence of the civilization a substantial distance to the south of its original location. This (50) suggests that the Indus Valley people most likely relocated for catastrophic environmental reasons, with the large empire disintegrating into many regional cultures. Severe drought, of which there is evidence, may have made some lands unfarmable. Without (55) enough grain to feed the large urban populations, many of the Indus Valley civilization’s large cities would probably have been abandoned. Or, a massive earthquake in this seismically volatile region may have changed the course of rivers and disrupted many cities, (60) spurring a migration of refugees to the countryside.

Along with Egypt and Sumer, the third major early Bronze Age civilization was the Indus Valley civilization, which flourished from 2600 B.C. to 900 B.C. In geographic size, the Indus Valley (5) civilization was the largest ancient urban civilization, bigger than pharaonic Egypt. Centered on the Indus River and the now dry Ghaggar-Hakra River, it comprised about 1,400 settlements across what is now Pakistan, Afghanistan, and northwestern India. (10) The Indus Valley civilization was long considered archaeologically uninteresting because of its ordinary urban architecture and lack of palaces or citadels, but recent excavations show the civilization to be without parallel in history, displaying characteristics not (15) elsewhere united in a single civilization.

The Indus Valley people, masters of urban planning, built brick cities on flood-proof terraces with grids of long, straight streets and the first urban sewer systems, made of masonry. No signs of dominant (20) rulers have been found, and the cities’ living quarters show little sign of class distinction, suggesting that their system of government was, at least in part, democratic. The civilization also apparently thrived without armies—there is, for example, no evidence of (25) weapon production.

The Indus Valley people were the first to cultivate rice and cotton, and they developed a carefully organized agricultural system to produce and distribute food. In addition, the Indus Valley civilization was (30) one of the ancient world’s top traders. Examples of its standardized weights have been found in many harbors around the Arabian Sea, and Sumerian tablets inscribed in 2300 B.C. provide evidence that the Indus Valley people maintained trade with Mesopotamia.

(35) The causes of the civilization’s decline, however, are not certain, and this has produced the most contention among scholars. A long-standing theory, one that today still inhabits history books, was proposed by British archaeologist Mortimer Wheeler (40) in the 1920s and points to a final massacre by marauding Indo-Aryan invaders. But, in addition to a lack of written evidence of such an event in any ancient Indian records, there is no archaeological evidence of battles within the cities. In fact, new (45) excavations show that Indo-Aryans were not even in the region at the time the massacre was alleged to have taken place. Archaeological evidence also shows a later resurgence of the civilization a substantial distance to the south of its original location. This (50) suggests that the Indus Valley people most likely relocated for catastrophic environmental reasons, with the large empire disintegrating into many regional cultures. Severe drought, of which there is evidence, may have made some lands unfarmable. Without (55) enough grain to feed the large urban populations, many of the Indus Valley civilization’s large cities would probably have been abandoned. Or, a massive earthquake in this seismically volatile region may have changed the course of rivers and disrupted many cities, (60) spurring a migration of refugees to the countryside.

Along with Egypt and Sumer, the third major early Bronze Age civilization was the Indus Valley civilization, which flourished from 2600 B.C. to 900 B.C. In geographic size, the Indus Valley (5) civilization was the largest ancient urban civilization, bigger than pharaonic Egypt. Centered on the Indus River and the now dry Ghaggar-Hakra River, it comprised about 1,400 settlements across what is now Pakistan, Afghanistan, and northwestern India. (10) The Indus Valley civilization was long considered archaeologically uninteresting because of its ordinary urban architecture and lack of palaces or citadels, but recent excavations show the civilization to be without parallel in history, displaying characteristics not (15) elsewhere united in a single civilization.

The Indus Valley people, masters of urban planning, built brick cities on flood-proof terraces with grids of long, straight streets and the first urban sewer systems, made of masonry. No signs of dominant (20) rulers have been found, and the cities’ living quarters show little sign of class distinction, suggesting that their system of government was, at least in part, democratic. The civilization also apparently thrived without armies—there is, for example, no evidence of (25) weapon production.

The Indus Valley people were the first to cultivate rice and cotton, and they developed a carefully organized agricultural system to produce and distribute food. In addition, the Indus Valley civilization was (30) one of the ancient world’s top traders. Examples of its standardized weights have been found in many harbors around the Arabian Sea, and Sumerian tablets inscribed in 2300 B.C. provide evidence that the Indus Valley people maintained trade with Mesopotamia.

(35) The causes of the civilization’s decline, however, are not certain, and this has produced the most contention among scholars. A long-standing theory, one that today still inhabits history books, was proposed by British archaeologist Mortimer Wheeler (40) in the 1920s and points to a final massacre by marauding Indo-Aryan invaders. But, in addition to a lack of written evidence of such an event in any ancient Indian records, there is no archaeological evidence of battles within the cities. In fact, new (45) excavations show that Indo-Aryans were not even in the region at the time the massacre was alleged to have taken place. Archaeological evidence also shows a later resurgence of the civilization a substantial distance to the south of its original location. This (50) suggests that the Indus Valley people most likely relocated for catastrophic environmental reasons, with the large empire disintegrating into many regional cultures. Severe drought, of which there is evidence, may have made some lands unfarmable. Without (55) enough grain to feed the large urban populations, many of the Indus Valley civilization’s large cities would probably have been abandoned. Or, a massive earthquake in this seismically volatile region may have changed the course of rivers and disrupted many cities, (60) spurring a migration of refugees to the countryside.

Film scholar David Bordwell refers to the years 1917-1960 as the classical era of filmmaking in Hollywood. Bordwell defines the era’s style as being governed by straightforward narrative considerations, (5) i.e., the need to follow well-defined characters through a chronological sequence of events, or plot. The technical elements of filmmaking—camera movement, lighting, editing, and sound—are all employed to tell a realistic story, one in which the world of the story is (10) self-sufficient and recognizably related to our own. Devices that draw attention to the film as film rather than to the story are avoided.

Within this definition, the musical films of the 1930s are anomalous in that they interrupt narrative to (15) present musical performances only tangentially related to the plot. In one film directed by Busby Berkeley, for example, a scene begins with a shot of an audience watching a singer. The singer’s face then fills the screen—a natural enough transition—but this image (20) soon dissolves into a fanciful sequence consisting of various aerial views of city life. Although the sequence illustrates the song being sung, it does not contribute to the story Berkeley tells between musical numbers. In such sequences, filmmaking techniques (25) are used not to advance a narrative but as a respite from narrative; the people we see are not characters in a plot but rather are abstracted figures; editing and camera movement function not to help tell a story but to manipulate images into intricate patterns. Can the (30) musical—in which such differently motivated and constructed sequences abut so closely—fit comfortably within Bordwell’s definition of the classical style?

Bordwell’s response is that the musical, no less than comedy or melodrama other staples of the (35) classical era), evolved from popular live theater. The musical’s conventions, Bordwell argues, cue viewers to expect a different structure—alternating narrative scenes and self-contained performances—from that of other genres, a structure that audiences are prepared (40) for and thus accept as “realistic.” But raising the issue of genre does not disguise the fact that Bordwell stretches the definition of the term “realism,” for there is still the problem exemplified in films such as Berkeley’s by the fact that the musical performances (45) are not merely self-contained but self-absorbed—the selfish aesthetic of the interlude isn’t intended to advance the plot but instead to draw attention to its own artistic expertise. Even the viewer aware of the film’s genre cannot remain entirely unfazed by the (50) break in the film’s “reality.” Bordwell too quickly dismisses the fact that watching a film is a perceptual act and not an academic exercise in pigeonholing genres. Because knowledge of genre is acquired, it would be worthwhile for scholars like Bordwell to (55) first consider how viewers process cinematic images and eventually come to accept them as conventions before generalizing about the realism of certain film styles.

Film scholar David Bordwell refers to the years 1917-1960 as the classical era of filmmaking in Hollywood. Bordwell defines the era’s style as being governed by straightforward narrative considerations, (5) i.e., the need to follow well-defined characters through a chronological sequence of events, or plot. The technical elements of filmmaking—camera movement, lighting, editing, and sound—are all employed to tell a realistic story, one in which the world of the story is (10) self-sufficient and recognizably related to our own. Devices that draw attention to the film as film rather than to the story are avoided.

Within this definition, the musical films of the 1930s are anomalous in that they interrupt narrative to (15) present musical performances only tangentially related to the plot. In one film directed by Busby Berkeley, for example, a scene begins with a shot of an audience watching a singer. The singer’s face then fills the screen—a natural enough transition—but this image (20) soon dissolves into a fanciful sequence consisting of various aerial views of city life. Although the sequence illustrates the song being sung, it does not contribute to the story Berkeley tells between musical numbers. In such sequences, filmmaking techniques (25) are used not to advance a narrative but as a respite from narrative; the people we see are not characters in a plot but rather are abstracted figures; editing and camera movement function not to help tell a story but to manipulate images into intricate patterns. Can the (30) musical—in which such differently motivated and constructed sequences abut so closely—fit comfortably within Bordwell’s definition of the classical style?

Bordwell’s response is that the musical, no less than comedy or melodrama other staples of the (35) classical era), evolved from popular live theater. The musical’s conventions, Bordwell argues, cue viewers to expect a different structure—alternating narrative scenes and self-contained performances—from that of other genres, a structure that audiences are prepared (40) for and thus accept as “realistic.” But raising the issue of genre does not disguise the fact that Bordwell stretches the definition of the term “realism,” for there is still the problem exemplified in films such as Berkeley’s by the fact that the musical performances (45) are not merely self-contained but self-absorbed—the selfish aesthetic of the interlude isn’t intended to advance the plot but instead to draw attention to its own artistic expertise. Even the viewer aware of the film’s genre cannot remain entirely unfazed by the (50) break in the film’s “reality.” Bordwell too quickly dismisses the fact that watching a film is a perceptual act and not an academic exercise in pigeonholing genres. Because knowledge of genre is acquired, it would be worthwhile for scholars like Bordwell to (55) first consider how viewers process cinematic images and eventually come to accept them as conventions before generalizing about the realism of certain film styles.

Film scholar David Bordwell refers to the years 1917-1960 as the classical era of filmmaking in Hollywood. Bordwell defines the era’s style as being governed by straightforward narrative considerations, (5) i.e., the need to follow well-defined characters through a chronological sequence of events, or plot. The technical elements of filmmaking—camera movement, lighting, editing, and sound—are all employed to tell a realistic story, one in which the world of the story is (10) self-sufficient and recognizably related to our own. Devices that draw attention to the film as film rather than to the story are avoided.

Within this definition, the musical films of the 1930s are anomalous in that they interrupt narrative to (15) present musical performances only tangentially related to the plot. In one film directed by Busby Berkeley, for example, a scene begins with a shot of an audience watching a singer. The singer’s face then fills the screen—a natural enough transition—but this image (20) soon dissolves into a fanciful sequence consisting of various aerial views of city life. Although the sequence illustrates the song being sung, it does not contribute to the story Berkeley tells between musical numbers. In such sequences, filmmaking techniques (25) are used not to advance a narrative but as a respite from narrative; the people we see are not characters in a plot but rather are abstracted figures; editing and camera movement function not to help tell a story but to manipulate images into intricate patterns. Can the (30) musical—in which such differently motivated and constructed sequences abut so closely—fit comfortably within Bordwell’s definition of the classical style?

Bordwell’s response is that the musical, no less than comedy or melodrama other staples of the (35) classical era), evolved from popular live theater. The musical’s conventions, Bordwell argues, cue viewers to expect a different structure—alternating narrative scenes and self-contained performances—from that of other genres, a structure that audiences are prepared (40) for and thus accept as “realistic.” But raising the issue of genre does not disguise the fact that Bordwell stretches the definition of the term “realism,” for there is still the problem exemplified in films such as Berkeley’s by the fact that the musical performances (45) are not merely self-contained but self-absorbed—the selfish aesthetic of the interlude isn’t intended to advance the plot but instead to draw attention to its own artistic expertise. Even the viewer aware of the film’s genre cannot remain entirely unfazed by the (50) break in the film’s “reality.” Bordwell too quickly dismisses the fact that watching a film is a perceptual act and not an academic exercise in pigeonholing genres. Because knowledge of genre is acquired, it would be worthwhile for scholars like Bordwell to (55) first consider how viewers process cinematic images and eventually come to accept them as conventions before generalizing about the realism of certain film styles.

Film scholar David Bordwell refers to the years 1917-1960 as the classical era of filmmaking in Hollywood. Bordwell defines the era’s style as being governed by straightforward narrative considerations, (5) i.e., the need to follow well-defined characters through a chronological sequence of events, or plot. The technical elements of filmmaking—camera movement, lighting, editing, and sound—are all employed to tell a realistic story, one in which the world of the story is (10) self-sufficient and recognizably related to our own. Devices that draw attention to the film as film rather than to the story are avoided.

Within this definition, the musical films of the 1930s are anomalous in that they interrupt narrative to (15) present musical performances only tangentially related to the plot. In one film directed by Busby Berkeley, for example, a scene begins with a shot of an audience watching a singer. The singer’s face then fills the screen—a natural enough transition—but this image (20) soon dissolves into a fanciful sequence consisting of various aerial views of city life. Although the sequence illustrates the song being sung, it does not contribute to the story Berkeley tells between musical numbers. In such sequences, filmmaking techniques (25) are used not to advance a narrative but as a respite from narrative; the people we see are not characters in a plot but rather are abstracted figures; editing and camera movement function not to help tell a story but to manipulate images into intricate patterns. Can the (30) musical—in which such differently motivated and constructed sequences abut so closely—fit comfortably within Bordwell’s definition of the classical style?

Bordwell’s response is that the musical, no less than comedy or melodrama other staples of the (35) classical era), evolved from popular live theater. The musical’s conventions, Bordwell argues, cue viewers to expect a different structure—alternating narrative scenes and self-contained performances—from that of other genres, a structure that audiences are prepared (40) for and thus accept as “realistic.” But raising the issue of genre does not disguise the fact that Bordwell stretches the definition of the term “realism,” for there is still the problem exemplified in films such as Berkeley’s by the fact that the musical performances (45) are not merely self-contained but self-absorbed—the selfish aesthetic of the interlude isn’t intended to advance the plot but instead to draw attention to its own artistic expertise. Even the viewer aware of the film’s genre cannot remain entirely unfazed by the (50) break in the film’s “reality.” Bordwell too quickly dismisses the fact that watching a film is a perceptual act and not an academic exercise in pigeonholing genres. Because knowledge of genre is acquired, it would be worthwhile for scholars like Bordwell to (55) first consider how viewers process cinematic images and eventually come to accept them as conventions before generalizing about the realism of certain film styles.

Film scholar David Bordwell refers to the years 1917-1960 as the classical era of filmmaking in Hollywood. Bordwell defines the era’s style as being governed by straightforward narrative considerations, (5) i.e., the need to follow well-defined characters through a chronological sequence of events, or plot. The technical elements of filmmaking—camera movement, lighting, editing, and sound—are all employed to tell a realistic story, one in which the world of the story is (10) self-sufficient and recognizably related to our own. Devices that draw attention to the film as film rather than to the story are avoided.

Within this definition, the musical films of the 1930s are anomalous in that they interrupt narrative to (15) present musical performances only tangentially related to the plot. In one film directed by Busby Berkeley, for example, a scene begins with a shot of an audience watching a singer. The singer’s face then fills the screen—a natural enough transition—but this image (20) soon dissolves into a fanciful sequence consisting of various aerial views of city life. Although the sequence illustrates the song being sung, it does not contribute to the story Berkeley tells between musical numbers. In such sequences, filmmaking techniques (25) are used not to advance a narrative but as a respite from narrative; the people we see are not characters in a plot but rather are abstracted figures; editing and camera movement function not to help tell a story but to manipulate images into intricate patterns. Can the (30) musical—in which such differently motivated and constructed sequences abut so closely—fit comfortably within Bordwell’s definition of the classical style?

Bordwell’s response is that the musical, no less than comedy or melodrama other staples of the (35) classical era), evolved from popular live theater. The musical’s conventions, Bordwell argues, cue viewers to expect a different structure—alternating narrative scenes and self-contained performances—from that of other genres, a structure that audiences are prepared (40) for and thus accept as “realistic.” But raising the issue of genre does not disguise the fact that Bordwell stretches the definition of the term “realism,” for there is still the problem exemplified in films such as Berkeley’s by the fact that the musical performances (45) are not merely self-contained but self-absorbed—the selfish aesthetic of the interlude isn’t intended to advance the plot but instead to draw attention to its own artistic expertise. Even the viewer aware of the film’s genre cannot remain entirely unfazed by the (50) break in the film’s “reality.” Bordwell too quickly dismisses the fact that watching a film is a perceptual act and not an academic exercise in pigeonholing genres. Because knowledge of genre is acquired, it would be worthwhile for scholars like Bordwell to (55) first consider how viewers process cinematic images and eventually come to accept them as conventions before generalizing about the realism of certain film styles.

Film scholar David Bordwell refers to the years 1917-1960 as the classical era of filmmaking in Hollywood. Bordwell defines the era’s style as being governed by straightforward narrative considerations, (5) i.e., the need to follow well-defined characters through a chronological sequence of events, or plot. The technical elements of filmmaking—camera movement, lighting, editing, and sound—are all employed to tell a realistic story, one in which the world of the story is (10) self-sufficient and recognizably related to our own. Devices that draw attention to the film as film rather than to the story are avoided.

Within this definition, the musical films of the 1930s are anomalous in that they interrupt narrative to (15) present musical performances only tangentially related to the plot. In one film directed by Busby Berkeley, for example, a scene begins with a shot of an audience watching a singer. The singer’s face then fills the screen—a natural enough transition—but this image (20) soon dissolves into a fanciful sequence consisting of various aerial views of city life. Although the sequence illustrates the song being sung, it does not contribute to the story Berkeley tells between musical numbers. In such sequences, filmmaking techniques (25) are used not to advance a narrative but as a respite from narrative; the people we see are not characters in a plot but rather are abstracted figures; editing and camera movement function not to help tell a story but to manipulate images into intricate patterns. Can the (30) musical—in which such differently motivated and constructed sequences abut so closely—fit comfortably within Bordwell’s definition of the classical style?

Bordwell’s response is that the musical, no less than comedy or melodrama other staples of the (35) classical era), evolved from popular live theater. The musical’s conventions, Bordwell argues, cue viewers to expect a different structure—alternating narrative scenes and self-contained performances—from that of other genres, a structure that audiences are prepared (40) for and thus accept as “realistic.” But raising the issue of genre does not disguise the fact that Bordwell stretches the definition of the term “realism,” for there is still the problem exemplified in films such as Berkeley’s by the fact that the musical performances (45) are not merely self-contained but self-absorbed—the selfish aesthetic of the interlude isn’t intended to advance the plot but instead to draw attention to its own artistic expertise. Even the viewer aware of the film’s genre cannot remain entirely unfazed by the (50) break in the film’s “reality.” Bordwell too quickly dismisses the fact that watching a film is a perceptual act and not an academic exercise in pigeonholing genres. Because knowledge of genre is acquired, it would be worthwhile for scholars like Bordwell to (55) first consider how viewers process cinematic images and eventually come to accept them as conventions before generalizing about the realism of certain film styles.

Film scholar David Bordwell refers to the years 1917-1960 as the classical era of filmmaking in Hollywood. Bordwell defines the era’s style as being governed by straightforward narrative considerations, (5) i.e., the need to follow well-defined characters through a chronological sequence of events, or plot. The technical elements of filmmaking—camera movement, lighting, editing, and sound—are all employed to tell a realistic story, one in which the world of the story is (10) self-sufficient and recognizably related to our own. Devices that draw attention to the film as film rather than to the story are avoided.

Within this definition, the musical films of the 1930s are anomalous in that they interrupt narrative to (15) present musical performances only tangentially related to the plot. In one film directed by Busby Berkeley, for example, a scene begins with a shot of an audience watching a singer. The singer’s face then fills the screen—a natural enough transition—but this image (20) soon dissolves into a fanciful sequence consisting of various aerial views of city life. Although the sequence illustrates the song being sung, it does not contribute to the story Berkeley tells between musical numbers. In such sequences, filmmaking techniques (25) are used not to advance a narrative but as a respite from narrative; the people we see are not characters in a plot but rather are abstracted figures; editing and camera movement function not to help tell a story but to manipulate images into intricate patterns. Can the (30) musical—in which such differently motivated and constructed sequences abut so closely—fit comfortably within Bordwell’s definition of the classical style?

Bordwell’s response is that the musical, no less than comedy or melodrama other staples of the (35) classical era), evolved from popular live theater. The musical’s conventions, Bordwell argues, cue viewers to expect a different structure—alternating narrative scenes and self-contained performances—from that of other genres, a structure that audiences are prepared (40) for and thus accept as “realistic.” But raising the issue of genre does not disguise the fact that Bordwell stretches the definition of the term “realism,” for there is still the problem exemplified in films such as Berkeley’s by the fact that the musical performances (45) are not merely self-contained but self-absorbed—the selfish aesthetic of the interlude isn’t intended to advance the plot but instead to draw attention to its own artistic expertise. Even the viewer aware of the film’s genre cannot remain entirely unfazed by the (50) break in the film’s “reality.” Bordwell too quickly dismisses the fact that watching a film is a perceptual act and not an academic exercise in pigeonholing genres. Because knowledge of genre is acquired, it would be worthwhile for scholars like Bordwell to (55) first consider how viewers process cinematic images and eventually come to accept them as conventions before generalizing about the realism of certain film styles.

Passage A

The legal system rests on the assumption that people use conscious deliberation when deciding how to act—that is, in the absence of external duress, (5) people freely decide how to act. But behaviors — even high-level behaviors — can take place in the absence of free will. For example, someone with a neurological disorder might form a facial expression without choosing to do so.

(10) The crucial legal question is whether all of our actions are fundamentally beyond our control or whether some little bit of you is “free” to choose, independent of the rules of biology. After all, as neurologists tell us, there is no spot in the brain that is (15) not densely interconnected with—and driven by— other brain parts. And that suggests that no part is independent and therefore “free.”

One thing seems clear: if free will does exist, it has little room in which to operate. It can at best be a (20) small factor riding on top of vast neural networks shaped by genes and environment. In fact, free will may end up being so small that we eventually think about bad decision-making in the same way we think about any physical affliction.

(25) Blameworthiness should thus be removed from the legal argot. It is a backward-looking concept that demands the impossible task of untangling the hopelessly complex web of genetics and environment in order to isolate a factor of free will that may or may (30) not exist. Instead of debating culpability, the legal system has to become forward looking, and address how an accused lawbreaker is likely to behave in the future.

Passage B

(35) Here is a paradox: if people lack free will, then how can the law be moved away from what seems to be a deeply entrenched reliance on blame-related concepts? Rational arguments will only get you so far. Clinical research indicates that people will often (40) continue to make moral judgments even when they are conditioned to think that human behavior is determined by physical processes. The blaming urge is deeply rooted in the human psyche, and I have considerable doubt that any amount of scientific evidence can (45) remove it from our criminal justice processes. We have, of course, tried this before.

Rehabilitation was widely accepted by criminal justice experts in the mid-twentieth century. But public support waned, and a retributive backlash occurred in (50) the 1970s and 1980s. Criminal behavior may be a matter of biology, not choice, but the public seems unwilling to incorporate this idea into the law.

My sense is that blaming performs some useful social function, even if it is in some way “false.” (55) Blaming seems too intrinsically a part of the social life of human beings for me to see it as a worthless appendage that can be harmlessly amputated. As the criminal justice system confronts the challenges of brain science, it should also seek a better understanding (60) of why people blame and try to continue to respect the underlying social needs.

Passage A

The legal system rests on the assumption that people use conscious deliberation when deciding how to act—that is, in the absence of external duress, (5) people freely decide how to act. But behaviors — even high-level behaviors — can take place in the absence of free will. For example, someone with a neurological disorder might form a facial expression without choosing to do so.

(10) The crucial legal question is whether all of our actions are fundamentally beyond our control or whether some little bit of you is “free” to choose, independent of the rules of biology. After all, as neurologists tell us, there is no spot in the brain that is (15) not densely interconnected with—and driven by— other brain parts. And that suggests that no part is independent and therefore “free.”

One thing seems clear: if free will does exist, it has little room in which to operate. It can at best be a (20) small factor riding on top of vast neural networks shaped by genes and environment. In fact, free will may end up being so small that we eventually think about bad decision-making in the same way we think about any physical affliction.

(25) Blameworthiness should thus be removed from the legal argot. It is a backward-looking concept that demands the impossible task of untangling the hopelessly complex web of genetics and environment in order to isolate a factor of free will that may or may (30) not exist. Instead of debating culpability, the legal system has to become forward looking, and address how an accused lawbreaker is likely to behave in the future.

Passage B

(35) Here is a paradox: if people lack free will, then how can the law be moved away from what seems to be a deeply entrenched reliance on blame-related concepts? Rational arguments will only get you so far. Clinical research indicates that people will often (40) continue to make moral judgments even when they are conditioned to think that human behavior is determined by physical processes. The blaming urge is deeply rooted in the human psyche, and I have considerable doubt that any amount of scientific evidence can (45) remove it from our criminal justice processes. We have, of course, tried this before.

Rehabilitation was widely accepted by criminal justice experts in the mid-twentieth century. But public support waned, and a retributive backlash occurred in (50) the 1970s and 1980s. Criminal behavior may be a matter of biology, not choice, but the public seems unwilling to incorporate this idea into the law.

My sense is that blaming performs some useful social function, even if it is in some way “false.” (55) Blaming seems too intrinsically a part of the social life of human beings for me to see it as a worthless appendage that can be harmlessly amputated. As the criminal justice system confronts the challenges of brain science, it should also seek a better understanding (60) of why people blame and try to continue to respect the underlying social needs.

Passage A

The legal system rests on the assumption that people use conscious deliberation when deciding how to act—that is, in the absence of external duress, (5) people freely decide how to act. But behaviors — even high-level behaviors — can take place in the absence of free will. For example, someone with a neurological disorder might form a facial expression without choosing to do so.

(10) The crucial legal question is whether all of our actions are fundamentally beyond our control or whether some little bit of you is “free” to choose, independent of the rules of biology. After all, as neurologists tell us, there is no spot in the brain that is (15) not densely interconnected with—and driven by— other brain parts. And that suggests that no part is independent and therefore “free.”

One thing seems clear: if free will does exist, it has little room in which to operate. It can at best be a (20) small factor riding on top of vast neural networks shaped by genes and environment. In fact, free will may end up being so small that we eventually think about bad decision-making in the same way we think about any physical affliction.

(25) Blameworthiness should thus be removed from the legal argot. It is a backward-looking concept that demands the impossible task of untangling the hopelessly complex web of genetics and environment in order to isolate a factor of free will that may or may (30) not exist. Instead of debating culpability, the legal system has to become forward looking, and address how an accused lawbreaker is likely to behave in the future.

Passage B

(35) Here is a paradox: if people lack free will, then how can the law be moved away from what seems to be a deeply entrenched reliance on blame-related concepts? Rational arguments will only get you so far. Clinical research indicates that people will often (40) continue to make moral judgments even when they are conditioned to think that human behavior is determined by physical processes. The blaming urge is deeply rooted in the human psyche, and I have considerable doubt that any amount of scientific evidence can (45) remove it from our criminal justice processes. We have, of course, tried this before.

Rehabilitation was widely accepted by criminal justice experts in the mid-twentieth century. But public support waned, and a retributive backlash occurred in (50) the 1970s and 1980s. Criminal behavior may be a matter of biology, not choice, but the public seems unwilling to incorporate this idea into the law.

My sense is that blaming performs some useful social function, even if it is in some way “false.” (55) Blaming seems too intrinsically a part of the social life of human beings for me to see it as a worthless appendage that can be harmlessly amputated. As the criminal justice system confronts the challenges of brain science, it should also seek a better understanding (60) of why people blame and try to continue to respect the underlying social needs.

Passage A

The legal system rests on the assumption that people use conscious deliberation when deciding how to act—that is, in the absence of external duress, (5) people freely decide how to act. But behaviors — even high-level behaviors — can take place in the absence of free will. For example, someone with a neurological disorder might form a facial expression without choosing to do so.

(10) The crucial legal question is whether all of our actions are fundamentally beyond our control or whether some little bit of you is “free” to choose, independent of the rules of biology. After all, as neurologists tell us, there is no spot in the brain that is (15) not densely interconnected with—and driven by— other brain parts. And that suggests that no part is independent and therefore “free.”

One thing seems clear: if free will does exist, it has little room in which to operate. It can at best be a (20) small factor riding on top of vast neural networks shaped by genes and environment. In fact, free will may end up being so small that we eventually think about bad decision-making in the same way we think about any physical affliction.

(25) Blameworthiness should thus be removed from the legal argot. It is a backward-looking concept that demands the impossible task of untangling the hopelessly complex web of genetics and environment in order to isolate a factor of free will that may or may (30) not exist. Instead of debating culpability, the legal system has to become forward looking, and address how an accused lawbreaker is likely to behave in the future.

Passage B

(35) Here is a paradox: if people lack free will, then how can the law be moved away from what seems to be a deeply entrenched reliance on blame-related concepts? Rational arguments will only get you so far. Clinical research indicates that people will often (40) continue to make moral judgments even when they are conditioned to think that human behavior is determined by physical processes. The blaming urge is deeply rooted in the human psyche, and I have considerable doubt that any amount of scientific evidence can (45) remove it from our criminal justice processes. We have, of course, tried this before.

Rehabilitation was widely accepted by criminal justice experts in the mid-twentieth century. But public support waned, and a retributive backlash occurred in (50) the 1970s and 1980s. Criminal behavior may be a matter of biology, not choice, but the public seems unwilling to incorporate this idea into the law.

My sense is that blaming performs some useful social function, even if it is in some way “false.” (55) Blaming seems too intrinsically a part of the social life of human beings for me to see it as a worthless appendage that can be harmlessly amputated. As the criminal justice system confronts the challenges of brain science, it should also seek a better understanding (60) of why people blame and try to continue to respect the underlying social needs.

Passage A

The legal system rests on the assumption that people use conscious deliberation when deciding how to act—that is, in the absence of external duress, (5) people freely decide how to act. But behaviors — even high-level behaviors — can take place in the absence of free will. For example, someone with a neurological disorder might form a facial expression without choosing to do so.

(10) The crucial legal question is whether all of our actions are fundamentally beyond our control or whether some little bit of you is “free” to choose, independent of the rules of biology. After all, as neurologists tell us, there is no spot in the brain that is (15) not densely interconnected with—and driven by— other brain parts. And that suggests that no part is independent and therefore “free.”

One thing seems clear: if free will does exist, it has little room in which to operate. It can at best be a (20) small factor riding on top of vast neural networks shaped by genes and environment. In fact, free will may end up being so small that we eventually think about bad decision-making in the same way we think about any physical affliction.

(25) Blameworthiness should thus be removed from the legal argot. It is a backward-looking concept that demands the impossible task of untangling the hopelessly complex web of genetics and environment in order to isolate a factor of free will that may or may (30) not exist. Instead of debating culpability, the legal system has to become forward looking, and address how an accused lawbreaker is likely to behave in the future.

Passage B

(35) Here is a paradox: if people lack free will, then how can the law be moved away from what seems to be a deeply entrenched reliance on blame-related concepts? Rational arguments will only get you so far. Clinical research indicates that people will often (40) continue to make moral judgments even when they are conditioned to think that human behavior is determined by physical processes. The blaming urge is deeply rooted in the human psyche, and I have considerable doubt that any amount of scientific evidence can (45) remove it from our criminal justice processes. We have, of course, tried this before.

Rehabilitation was widely accepted by criminal justice experts in the mid-twentieth century. But public support waned, and a retributive backlash occurred in (50) the 1970s and 1980s. Criminal behavior may be a matter of biology, not choice, but the public seems unwilling to incorporate this idea into the law.

My sense is that blaming performs some useful social function, even if it is in some way “false.” (55) Blaming seems too intrinsically a part of the social life of human beings for me to see it as a worthless appendage that can be harmlessly amputated. As the criminal justice system confronts the challenges of brain science, it should also seek a better understanding (60) of why people blame and try to continue to respect the underlying social needs.

Passage A

The legal system rests on the assumption that people use conscious deliberation when deciding how to act—that is, in the absence of external duress, (5) people freely decide how to act. But behaviors — even high-level behaviors — can take place in the absence of free will. For example, someone with a neurological disorder might form a facial expression without choosing to do so.

(10) The crucial legal question is whether all of our actions are fundamentally beyond our control or whether some little bit of you is “free” to choose, independent of the rules of biology. After all, as neurologists tell us, there is no spot in the brain that is (15) not densely interconnected with—and driven by— other brain parts. And that suggests that no part is independent and therefore “free.”

One thing seems clear: if free will does exist, it has little room in which to operate. It can at best be a (20) small factor riding on top of vast neural networks shaped by genes and environment. In fact, free will may end up being so small that we eventually think about bad decision-making in the same way we think about any physical affliction.

(25) Blameworthiness should thus be removed from the legal argot. It is a backward-looking concept that demands the impossible task of untangling the hopelessly complex web of genetics and environment in order to isolate a factor of free will that may or may (30) not exist. Instead of debating culpability, the legal system has to become forward looking, and address how an accused lawbreaker is likely to behave in the future.

Passage B

(35) Here is a paradox: if people lack free will, then how can the law be moved away from what seems to be a deeply entrenched reliance on blame-related concepts? Rational arguments will only get you so far. Clinical research indicates that people will often (40) continue to make moral judgments even when they are conditioned to think that human behavior is determined by physical processes. The blaming urge is deeply rooted in the human psyche, and I have considerable doubt that any amount of scientific evidence can (45) remove it from our criminal justice processes. We have, of course, tried this before.

Rehabilitation was widely accepted by criminal justice experts in the mid-twentieth century. But public support waned, and a retributive backlash occurred in (50) the 1970s and 1980s. Criminal behavior may be a matter of biology, not choice, but the public seems unwilling to incorporate this idea into the law.

My sense is that blaming performs some useful social function, even if it is in some way “false.” (55) Blaming seems too intrinsically a part of the social life of human beings for me to see it as a worthless appendage that can be harmlessly amputated. As the criminal justice system confronts the challenges of brain science, it should also seek a better understanding (60) of why people blame and try to continue to respect the underlying social needs.

Physicists posit that at first our universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely hot and dense. It then underwent a period of extremely rapid, massive inflation (the Big Bang), and it has since continued to (5) expand and cool. According to physicists Sean Carroll and Jennifer Chen, the Big Bang was not a unique event; events like it happen periodically over an incredibly vast time scale. This is based on the suggestion of some (10) physicists that the Big Bang was the beginning of our universe as we know it, but not the beginning of a larger Universe—or “multiverse”—that encompasses everything, including that which we can never see because it is beyond our “cosmic bubble.”

(15) Carroll and Chen were initially interested in why time flows in only one direction. In physics the flow of time is captured by the second law of thermodynamics, which implies that entropy—a measure of total disorder—naturally increases with time. Entropy (20) increases because there are more ways for a system to be disordered than for it to be ordered. Therefore, if change occurs, it is more likely to be change toward greater disorder. For example, in a moderately orderly room, if one moves an object in the room randomly, (25) there are many more places one can put it that will make the room less orderly than there are places that will make it more orderly. So if, over time, objects in the room are continually moved randomly, it is most likely that the room will get increasingly disordered. (30) While the Big Bang process and what followed obey the second law of thermodynamics, it is a mystery why there should have been a small, hot, and dense universe to begin with. Such a low entropy universe is an extremely unlikely configuration, not (35) what scientists would expect from a randomly occurring initial condition. Carroll and Chen’s innovation is to argue that the most common initial condition is actually likely to resemble cold, empty space—not an obviously favorable starting point for (40) the onset of inflation.

Recent research has shown that even empty space has faint traces of energy that fluctuate on the subatomic scale. Physicists Jaume Garriga and Alexander Vilenkin have suggested that these (45) fluctuations can generate their own big bangs in tiny areas widely separated in time and space. Carroll and Chen take our universe, and others, to be such fluctuations in a high entropy multiverse.

On this view, while the initial state that produced (50) our universe would appear to be, taken by itself, a highly improbable one, in the vastness of the multiverse the creation of our universe is not that unlikely. Indeed it is likely not even a unique event.

Physicists posit that at first our universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely hot and dense. It then underwent a period of extremely rapid, massive inflation (the Big Bang), and it has since continued to (5) expand and cool. According to physicists Sean Carroll and Jennifer Chen, the Big Bang was not a unique event; events like it happen periodically over an incredibly vast time scale. This is based on the suggestion of some (10) physicists that the Big Bang was the beginning of our universe as we know it, but not the beginning of a larger Universe—or “multiverse”—that encompasses everything, including that which we can never see because it is beyond our “cosmic bubble.”

(15) Carroll and Chen were initially interested in why time flows in only one direction. In physics the flow of time is captured by the second law of thermodynamics, which implies that entropy—a measure of total disorder—naturally increases with time. Entropy (20) increases because there are more ways for a system to be disordered than for it to be ordered. Therefore, if change occurs, it is more likely to be change toward greater disorder. For example, in a moderately orderly room, if one moves an object in the room randomly, (25) there are many more places one can put it that will make the room less orderly than there are places that will make it more orderly. So if, over time, objects in the room are continually moved randomly, it is most likely that the room will get increasingly disordered. (30) While the Big Bang process and what followed obey the second law of thermodynamics, it is a mystery why there should have been a small, hot, and dense universe to begin with. Such a low entropy universe is an extremely unlikely configuration, not (35) what scientists would expect from a randomly occurring initial condition. Carroll and Chen’s innovation is to argue that the most common initial condition is actually likely to resemble cold, empty space—not an obviously favorable starting point for (40) the onset of inflation.

Recent research has shown that even empty space has faint traces of energy that fluctuate on the subatomic scale. Physicists Jaume Garriga and Alexander Vilenkin have suggested that these (45) fluctuations can generate their own big bangs in tiny areas widely separated in time and space. Carroll and Chen take our universe, and others, to be such fluctuations in a high entropy multiverse.

On this view, while the initial state that produced (50) our universe would appear to be, taken by itself, a highly improbable one, in the vastness of the multiverse the creation of our universe is not that unlikely. Indeed it is likely not even a unique event.

Physicists posit that at first our universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely hot and dense. It then underwent a period of extremely rapid, massive inflation (the Big Bang), and it has since continued to (5) expand and cool. According to physicists Sean Carroll and Jennifer Chen, the Big Bang was not a unique event; events like it happen periodically over an incredibly vast time scale. This is based on the suggestion of some (10) physicists that the Big Bang was the beginning of our universe as we know it, but not the beginning of a larger Universe—or “multiverse”—that encompasses everything, including that which we can never see because it is beyond our “cosmic bubble.”

(15) Carroll and Chen were initially interested in why time flows in only one direction. In physics the flow of time is captured by the second law of thermodynamics, which implies that entropy—a measure of total disorder—naturally increases with time. Entropy (20) increases because there are more ways for a system to be disordered than for it to be ordered. Therefore, if change occurs, it is more likely to be change toward greater disorder. For example, in a moderately orderly room, if one moves an object in the room randomly, (25) there are many more places one can put it that will make the room less orderly than there are places that will make it more orderly. So if, over time, objects in the room are continually moved randomly, it is most likely that the room will get increasingly disordered. (30) While the Big Bang process and what followed obey the second law of thermodynamics, it is a mystery why there should have been a small, hot, and dense universe to begin with. Such a low entropy universe is an extremely unlikely configuration, not (35) what scientists would expect from a randomly occurring initial condition. Carroll and Chen’s innovation is to argue that the most common initial condition is actually likely to resemble cold, empty space—not an obviously favorable starting point for (40) the onset of inflation.

Recent research has shown that even empty space has faint traces of energy that fluctuate on the subatomic scale. Physicists Jaume Garriga and Alexander Vilenkin have suggested that these (45) fluctuations can generate their own big bangs in tiny areas widely separated in time and space. Carroll and Chen take our universe, and others, to be such fluctuations in a high entropy multiverse.

On this view, while the initial state that produced (50) our universe would appear to be, taken by itself, a highly improbable one, in the vastness of the multiverse the creation of our universe is not that unlikely. Indeed it is likely not even a unique event.

Physicists posit that at first our universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely hot and dense. It then underwent a period of extremely rapid, massive inflation (the Big Bang), and it has since continued to (5) expand and cool. According to physicists Sean Carroll and Jennifer Chen, the Big Bang was not a unique event; events like it happen periodically over an incredibly vast time scale. This is based on the suggestion of some (10) physicists that the Big Bang was the beginning of our universe as we know it, but not the beginning of a larger Universe—or “multiverse”—that encompasses everything, including that which we can never see because it is beyond our “cosmic bubble.”

(15) Carroll and Chen were initially interested in why time flows in only one direction. In physics the flow of time is captured by the second law of thermodynamics, which implies that entropy—a measure of total disorder—naturally increases with time. Entropy (20) increases because there are more ways for a system to be disordered than for it to be ordered. Therefore, if change occurs, it is more likely to be change toward greater disorder. For example, in a moderately orderly room, if one moves an object in the room randomly, (25) there are many more places one can put it that will make the room less orderly than there are places that will make it more orderly. So if, over time, objects in the room are continually moved randomly, it is most likely that the room will get increasingly disordered. (30) While the Big Bang process and what followed obey the second law of thermodynamics, it is a mystery why there should have been a small, hot, and dense universe to begin with. Such a low entropy universe is an extremely unlikely configuration, not (35) what scientists would expect from a randomly occurring initial condition. Carroll and Chen’s innovation is to argue that the most common initial condition is actually likely to resemble cold, empty space—not an obviously favorable starting point for (40) the onset of inflation.

Recent research has shown that even empty space has faint traces of energy that fluctuate on the subatomic scale. Physicists Jaume Garriga and Alexander Vilenkin have suggested that these (45) fluctuations can generate their own big bangs in tiny areas widely separated in time and space. Carroll and Chen take our universe, and others, to be such fluctuations in a high entropy multiverse.

On this view, while the initial state that produced (50) our universe would appear to be, taken by itself, a highly improbable one, in the vastness of the multiverse the creation of our universe is not that unlikely. Indeed it is likely not even a unique event.

Physicists posit that at first our universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely hot and dense. It then underwent a period of extremely rapid, massive inflation (the Big Bang), and it has since continued to (5) expand and cool. According to physicists Sean Carroll and Jennifer Chen, the Big Bang was not a unique event; events like it happen periodically over an incredibly vast time scale. This is based on the suggestion of some (10) physicists that the Big Bang was the beginning of our universe as we know it, but not the beginning of a larger Universe—or “multiverse”—that encompasses everything, including that which we can never see because it is beyond our “cosmic bubble.”

(15) Carroll and Chen were initially interested in why time flows in only one direction. In physics the flow of time is captured by the second law of thermodynamics, which implies that entropy—a measure of total disorder—naturally increases with time. Entropy (20) increases because there are more ways for a system to be disordered than for it to be ordered. Therefore, if change occurs, it is more likely to be change toward greater disorder. For example, in a moderately orderly room, if one moves an object in the room randomly, (25) there are many more places one can put it that will make the room less orderly than there are places that will make it more orderly. So if, over time, objects in the room are continually moved randomly, it is most likely that the room will get increasingly disordered. (30) While the Big Bang process and what followed obey the second law of thermodynamics, it is a mystery why there should have been a small, hot, and dense universe to begin with. Such a low entropy universe is an extremely unlikely configuration, not (35) what scientists would expect from a randomly occurring initial condition. Carroll and Chen’s innovation is to argue that the most common initial condition is actually likely to resemble cold, empty space—not an obviously favorable starting point for (40) the onset of inflation.

Recent research has shown that even empty space has faint traces of energy that fluctuate on the subatomic scale. Physicists Jaume Garriga and Alexander Vilenkin have suggested that these (45) fluctuations can generate their own big bangs in tiny areas widely separated in time and space. Carroll and Chen take our universe, and others, to be such fluctuations in a high entropy multiverse.

On this view, while the initial state that produced (50) our universe would appear to be, taken by itself, a highly improbable one, in the vastness of the multiverse the creation of our universe is not that unlikely. Indeed it is likely not even a unique event.

Physicists posit that at first our universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely hot and dense. It then underwent a period of extremely rapid, massive inflation (the Big Bang), and it has since continued to (5) expand and cool. According to physicists Sean Carroll and Jennifer Chen, the Big Bang was not a unique event; events like it happen periodically over an incredibly vast time scale. This is based on the suggestion of some (10) physicists that the Big Bang was the beginning of our universe as we know it, but not the beginning of a larger Universe—or “multiverse”—that encompasses everything, including that which we can never see because it is beyond our “cosmic bubble.”

(15) Carroll and Chen were initially interested in why time flows in only one direction. In physics the flow of time is captured by the second law of thermodynamics, which implies that entropy—a measure of total disorder—naturally increases with time. Entropy (20) increases because there are more ways for a system to be disordered than for it to be ordered. Therefore, if change occurs, it is more likely to be change toward greater disorder. For example, in a moderately orderly room, if one moves an object in the room randomly, (25) there are many more places one can put it that will make the room less orderly than there are places that will make it more orderly. So if, over time, objects in the room are continually moved randomly, it is most likely that the room will get increasingly disordered. (30) While the Big Bang process and what followed obey the second law of thermodynamics, it is a mystery why there should have been a small, hot, and dense universe to begin with. Such a low entropy universe is an extremely unlikely configuration, not (35) what scientists would expect from a randomly occurring initial condition. Carroll and Chen’s innovation is to argue that the most common initial condition is actually likely to resemble cold, empty space—not an obviously favorable starting point for (40) the onset of inflation.

Recent research has shown that even empty space has faint traces of energy that fluctuate on the subatomic scale. Physicists Jaume Garriga and Alexander Vilenkin have suggested that these (45) fluctuations can generate their own big bangs in tiny areas widely separated in time and space. Carroll and Chen take our universe, and others, to be such fluctuations in a high entropy multiverse.

On this view, while the initial state that produced (50) our universe would appear to be, taken by itself, a highly improbable one, in the vastness of the multiverse the creation of our universe is not that unlikely. Indeed it is likely not even a unique event.

Physicists posit that at first our universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely hot and dense. It then underwent a period of extremely rapid, massive inflation (the Big Bang), and it has since continued to (5) expand and cool. According to physicists Sean Carroll and Jennifer Chen, the Big Bang was not a unique event; events like it happen periodically over an incredibly vast time scale. This is based on the suggestion of some (10) physicists that the Big Bang was the beginning of our universe as we know it, but not the beginning of a larger Universe—or “multiverse”—that encompasses everything, including that which we can never see because it is beyond our “cosmic bubble.”

(15) Carroll and Chen were initially interested in why time flows in only one direction. In physics the flow of time is captured by the second law of thermodynamics, which implies that entropy—a measure of total disorder—naturally increases with time. Entropy (20) increases because there are more ways for a system to be disordered than for it to be ordered. Therefore, if change occurs, it is more likely to be change toward greater disorder. For example, in a moderately orderly room, if one moves an object in the room randomly, (25) there are many more places one can put it that will make the room less orderly than there are places that will make it more orderly. So if, over time, objects in the room are continually moved randomly, it is most likely that the room will get increasingly disordered. (30) While the Big Bang process and what followed obey the second law of thermodynamics, it is a mystery why there should have been a small, hot, and dense universe to begin with. Such a low entropy universe is an extremely unlikely configuration, not (35) what scientists would expect from a randomly occurring initial condition. Carroll and Chen’s innovation is to argue that the most common initial condition is actually likely to resemble cold, empty space—not an obviously favorable starting point for (40) the onset of inflation.

Recent research has shown that even empty space has faint traces of energy that fluctuate on the subatomic scale. Physicists Jaume Garriga and Alexander Vilenkin have suggested that these (45) fluctuations can generate their own big bangs in tiny areas widely separated in time and space. Carroll and Chen take our universe, and others, to be such fluctuations in a high entropy multiverse.

On this view, while the initial state that produced (50) our universe would appear to be, taken by itself, a highly improbable one, in the vastness of the multiverse the creation of our universe is not that unlikely. Indeed it is likely not even a unique event.