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Read this passage and then answer the multiple-choice questions below. Use a pencil to underline the phrases in the passage where you found the answers.
Yet actual journeys aren't like stories at all. At the time, they seem to be mere strings of haps and mishaps, without point or pattern. You get stuck. You meet someone you like. You get lost. You get lonely, You get interested in architecture. You get diarrhoea. You get invited to a party. You get frightened. A stretch of country takes you by surprise. You get homesick. You are, by rapid turns, engrossed, bored, alert, dull, happy, miserable, well and ill. Every day tends to seem out of connection with every other day, until living from moment to moment turns into a habit and travelling itself into a form of ordinary life. You can't remember when it wasn't like this. There is a great deal of liberating pleasure to be had from being abroad in the world, continuously on the move, like a lost balloon, but a journey, at least as long as it is actually taking place, is the exact opposite of a story. It is a shapeless, unsifted, endlessly shifting accumulation of experience. | 10
For travelling is inherently a plotless, disordered, chaotic affair, where writing insists on connection, order, plot, signification. It may take a year or more to see that there was any point to the thing at all, and more years still to make it yield an articulate story. Memory, not the notebook, holds the key. I try to keep a notebook when I'm on the move (largely because writing in it makes one feel that one's at work, despite all appearances to the contrary) but hardly ever find anything in the notebook that's worth using later. Trifles are described at inordinate length. Events that now seem important aren't mentioned at all. The keeper of the notebook sounds stupid and confused. He grouses too much about tides and timetables, and all the forgettable mechanics of the journey; he fails to notice what I remember observing in near-photographic detail. When I'm writing the book, I get precious little help from him ... the odd proper name, a date, an ascertainable fact | 20
here and there, but little or nothing in the way of intelligent comprehension of what he was doing at the time. Why was he so blind? Because he was travelling and I am writing, and the two activities are chalk and cheese.
■Memory, though, is always telling stories to itself, filing experience in narrative form. It feeds irrelevancies to the shredder, enlarges on crucial details, makes links and patterns, finds symbols, | 25
constructs plots. In memory, the journey takes shape and grows; in the notebook it merely languishes, with the notes themselves like a pile of cigarette butts confronted the morning after a party.
In 1982> 1 took six months to sail slowly round the British Isles, stopping at every place I'd known as a child and adolescent. A year later, I was still trying to begin the book that was based | 30
on the journey. I had 30,000 words, but they seemed forced and wrong. There was writing, but as yet no story worth the telling. There was a title Foreign Land, but it didn't fit the writing.
hom Far lave end Monty by Jonathan Raban
1 How is a real journey different from a story? A It has no order  B It is more frightening  C It is an interesting experience
2 Why doesn't Jonathan Raban write his books straight after his return from a journey? A He needs to read his notebook  B He never forgets the details  C His memory needs time
3 How does he took upon the person who wrote the notebook? A As a younger version of himself  B As an old friend  C As a stranger
4 Why does he always make notes during a journey? A To help him remember  B To make him feel he's working  C To fill the spare moments
5 Why is memory more productive than the notes he made? A Memory creates order  B Notes omit important details  C His notes aren't legible
6 What useful information can he get from his notebook when he's writing the book? A None at all  B A few names and dates  C The route he took
7 How did the writer travel round Britain? A On foot  B By car  C In a sailing boat  D By public transport
1'
haps	1	misfortunes  pleasant happenings ^ disasters
accumulation	10	collection  lack selection
inherently	li	by the way  by no means  by nature
articulate	13	long  amusing clear
trifles	16	meetings  unimportant things  exciting events
inordinate	16	fascinating  excessive insufficient
grouses	18	writes  celebrates grumbles
languishes	27	loses vitality  becomes interesting improves