2026학년도 3월
고3 영어 영역

Hae-rin sat outside the audition hall, her violin case across her lap, listening to the muffled sound of someone else's piece coming through the door. The corridor was bright and far too quiet. She had re-tuned the A string twice already; her fingers, doing the work without her, slipped a third time on the peg. When she stood up, the case knocked against her knee. The door opened. The panelist who waved her in was older than she had imagined, with the kind of careful look that did not change when she stumbled over her name. He gestured to the chair, and as she sat, he said, simply, 'Take the time you need. There is no rush in this room.' She breathed in once. She placed the violin under her chin. The opening note of the piece was already there, waiting.

Institutions now track performance through standardised metrics; numbers travel well across departments, and they protect administrators from accusations of favouritism. Such systems override decisions predicated on value judgements. Experienced teachers, clinicians, and managers formerly used contextual knowledge that resisted measurement: which student was ready to be pushed, which patient needed time beyond the allotted window, which project was drifting for reasons no form captured. Decisions justified by quantitative indicators prevent such knowledge from entering the record or entering deliberation either. Organisations begin to optimise for measurable paradigms. Where explanation beyond numbers is required, there no longer exists a method to do so. Circumstances requiring the honest worker to defend a judgement will see the individual frame it afterward in terms the audit requires.

When historians of science examine early accounts of chemical combustion, they encounter a persistent puzzle: practitioners of the phlogiston theory and practitioners of oxygen theory, observing the same experiments, did not merely interpret them differently — they did not agree on what had happened. Differences in calculated weights could be explained by one group but demanded further experimentation from the other. Thomas Kuhn argued that a mature theory plays a dual role of supplying vocabulary and categories through which raw experiments are registered as evidence. At a certain stage in the training of a scientist, the framework ceased to be a lens and became the eye itself. What is excluded from observation becomes a matter of altered perception, not intentional dismissal. The researcher who has ingested a chosen scientific perspective does not refrain from seeing anomalies; she sees a field in which no anomalies are present.

A chess master glancing at a mid-game position sees, almost instantly, the few moves worth considering; a radiologist reading a film identifies the relevant region before a trainee has finished orienting. What the same expertise obscures is harder to see in advance. The categories that have become automatic determine which features register as data at all. In domains whose underlying structure stays stable, that automation is pure gain. In domains that shift — new technologies, unfamiliar populations, or problems that cross fields — the expert's filters continue to operate as though the old structure still holds. The update is delayed by a layer the expert is not privy to: the prior classification of what is worth attending to at all. Rapid judgment rests on precisely the machinery that quiet anomalies cannot reach.

Scientific methods were developed to minimize the distortions introduced by any single observer's subjective biases in reporting observations. A practitioner rigorously trained in controlled experimentation, statistical inference, and replication prioritizes distinguishing their own expectations from what the data objectively reveal. Yet the point at which an objection becomes relevant is not settled by the observer's private discipline and care. Attempts to serve as one's own checks and balances undermine the scientific method's core logic. True rigor demands adversarial replication by others and institutional norms that actively reward disagreement, positioning these as essential mechanisms. Objectivity emerges not as an individual trait of the careful scientist, but as a product of transformative social processes where diverse voices scrutinize and refine knowledge claims.

In the southeastern corner of São Paulo state, a forest fragment of forty hectares remains of what was, two centuries ago, an unbroken canopy. The bird and amphibian communities of such fragments have been catalogued repeatedly for forty years; the species lists overlap considerably with the historical record of the wider forest. To a visitor, the fragments still look alive. Population ecologists modelling such systems argue that this appearance is a temporary state. When habitat shrinks below a threshold, certain species enter a slow decline whose endpoint is local extinction; the decline plays out across generations and is visible only after long monitoring. Some species disappear quickly; most others have not vanished only because the demographic clock has not finished. The biodiversity counted today therefore overstates the system's eventual state by an amount that the present cannot measure. Conservation accounting that records what is left but does not register what has been committed mistakes a debt for a balance.

Williamina Paton Stevens Fleming was born in Dundee, Scotland, in 1857, and educated locally before training as a teacher. After her marriage and a subsequent move to the United States in 1878, she found work, in modest circumstances, as a housekeeper in the Cambridge, Massachusetts home of Edward Pickering, the director of the Harvard College Observatory. Pickering, frustrated by the slow pace at which his male assistants worked through stellar photographs, is reported to have remarked that his Scottish housekeeper could do the job more carefully. He hired her into the Observatory's classification team in 1881. Over the next thirty years, Fleming helped develop the Pickering–Fleming system of stellar classification, classified more than 10,000 stars for the Draper Catalogue, and in 1888 identified the Horsehead Nebula on a photographic plate of the Orion region.

Contemporary cognitive science has increasingly rejected the older picture of the mind as a self-contained information processor, one that manipulates symbols inside the skull and treats action as a later output. Researchers in the embodied tradition argue that abstract reasoning ① is grounded in the body's ongoing engagement with a structured environment. A rudimentary sense of number, ② which appears in many vertebrates and in children before formal schooling, seems to grow from perceiving quantities and tracking objects through space. A growing body of research on the neural circuits that coordinate reaching, grasping, and posture ③ have shown that planning an action and forming an abstract judgment recruit overlapping patterns of computation. Such findings challenge the conventional picture of cognition, according to which movement merely follows inner reasoning, by offering evidence ④ suggesting that thought is partly constituted by bodily activity. Further work in this field will probably require ⑤ revising the older model still more.

The rise of mass politics in the twentieth century changed how states remembered their dead. Nineteenth-century commemorations, ① private in language even when public in form, addressed themselves to the families of the fallen, with names carved into local stone. What emerged after 1918 was different. Monuments in capitals now spoke in the voice of the nation, and anniversary ceremonies gathered the audience the state most wished to ② address — working-class men who had fought, their widows, and their children. The messages they carried were not descriptive but ③ instructive: the fallen had died for a cause demanding renewal from every generation. By the end of the century, as the states issuing those messages grew less confident in their own continuity, the same ceremonies began to ④ reinforce the certainties they had once proclaimed. Audiences now read them as reminders of what their grandparents had been asked to believe, not as calls for belief; the state's authority over public memory ⑤ eroded alongside.

The philosopher Charles Taylor has argued that modern identity is characterised by a persistent sense of BLANK. In pre-modern societies, a person's place was largely given: determined by birth, occupation, and religious community. The existentialist tradition, from Kierkegaard through Sartre, took the erosion of these frameworks to leave the self thrown back on its own resources, free to choose values from an open menu. Taylor's correction targets this picture. The frameworks the existentialists treat as dissolved continue to make claims on those who inhabit them; commitments to family, language, and faith are not optional contents a self assembles after deciding who it is, but partial constituents of any self that could do the deciding. Yet these claims do not deliver an identity wholesale either. What tradition supplies must still be answered for, defended, sometimes refused — and the self that does the answering was shaped by what it now stands in judgement on.

Recent neuroscientific research detects motor preparation in the brain hundreds of milliseconds* before a participant reports having decided to move. Some commentators conclude that the conscious self is not the originator of its decisions, so free will is illusory. The argument depends on equating freedom with the absence of prior causation, a position compatibilism* abandoned long ago. Compatibilists, from Hobbes through Frankfurt and Dennett, have held that an action is free when its cause is responsive to reasons rather than coerced. Whether the cause runs through neurons firing before conscious awareness has not been the issue. Compatibilists themselves differ over which causes qualify; none rests on the temporal priority of consciousness. Neuroscience establishes the temporal order of neural events. The argument from neuroscience, on this reading, is BLANK.

Conventional wisdom suggests that pressing need sharpens the mind. Faced with scarcity, people are said to concentrate on the urgent problem, filtering out distractions and acting decisively. This intuition shapes much policy thinking: give people enough constraint, and efficiency follows. Behavioural research complicates this picture. When researchers tracked sugarcane farmers in Tamil Nadu before and after harvest, the same individuals scored markedly higher on cognitive tests once payment arrived. Their IQs had not changed. What changed was the absence of financial pressure. The mechanism, Mullainathan and Shafir argue, is "tunneling." Scarcity narrows attention to whatever feels most urgent. Resources outside the tunnel, including long-term planning, secondary obligations, and the weighing of alternatives, receive less processing capacity. The implication runs against the tidy logic of focus and efficiency. By capturing attention and crowding out broader resources, scarcity erodes BLANK.

Anthropologists since Marcel Mauss have noticed something paradoxical about the gift. A present from a friend appears to be freely offered; the recipient feels grateful but not legally bound. Yet across cultures, the failure to return invites lasting damage to a relationship, and the timing and form of reciprocation are governed by tacit rules everyone seems to know. This puzzle dissolves once the gift is reframed: BLANK. The object that changes hands is the visible trace of the exchange, not its substance; what actually circulates is a claim each party retains on the other. A perfectly equivalent counter-gift offered too quickly therefore feels like an insult. Quick repayment converts the gift into a settled transaction and dissolves the very bond it was meant to generate. Gifts produce obligations that cannot be discharged because their persistence is what holds the relationship together.

Early-life exposure to microbial diversity shapes the developing immune system in ways that persist across the lifespan. ① Studies in germ-free mice show that the absence of microbial signals in the first weeks produces an immune system smaller and less differentiated than that of conventionally raised animals. ② Across adult populations, gut microbial composition varies considerably with diet, geography, and recent antibiotic exposure. ③ In humans, cohort studies report that delivery mode and antibiotic exposure during the first year correlate with later rates of allergy and asthma. ④ At the mechanistic level, microbial metabolites and surface molecules tune the maturation of T-cell populations that decide which substances will be tolerated and which attacked. ⑤ Environments scrubbed of ordinary microbial contact may not protect children's immune systems but delay the calibration those systems require.

A familiar position in moral philosophy holds that agents can be assessed only for what lies within their control.

APhilosophers who pressed this point, among them Bernard Williams, concluded that the practice was not a departure from moral reasoning but its honest form. Stripping away every factor the agent does not control leaves nothing recognisable as moral assessment.

BThe will deserves praise or blame; the world's outcomes do not. A driver who spills wine is judged, on this view, by the same standard as a driver who kills a child crossing an unlit street — assuming equal care.

COur actual practice does not obey this principle. We hold the unlucky driver to account not merely more severely but along different axes: his action, not only its outcome, acquires a weight the other's does not.

State planners of the last two centuries have reshaped forests, fields, and cities to make them legible — that is, readable from a central office.

AThe designed system performs as planned within its own terms and fails at everything the simplification hid from view: the fallen wood that held soil, the corner shop that kept the block safe after dark, the customary right that settled conflicts without a magistrate*.

BSuch conversions show that legibility is not neutral — it is a precondition, not a description. Before a forest can be managed for timber output, everything in it that is not timber must count as noise. Before a neighbourhood can be planned, the informal arrangements that made the neighbourhood work must appear as disorder to be cleared.

CThey demanded the renumbering of scattered, locally named villages; rotating, mixed plots were reorganised into single crops; surnames were standardised so that tax rolls could follow individuals across a lifetime.

Nations celebrate certain dates as origins: a founding, an independence act, or survival of the war said to have defined the country. Historians examining such occasions can show that the celebrated date was one of several possibilities, that contemporaries disagreed over its meaning, and that the version later treated as canonical was contested. ① The unified narrative under which the date is remembered is therefore not a transparent record of the past but an outcome of selection. ② This recession is slow attrition rather than deliberate suppression: a story stops being told because the public no longer knows what to do with it. ③ But the result, deliberate or not, is that the events surviving into shared memory are those that fit the surviving narrative. ④ National memory consists, in the end, of what has been forgotten as much as of what has been preserved. ⑤

Anthropologists have long understood that describing another culture entails learning to see the world through its conceptual categories and re-rendering them for readers who do not share them. ① Clifford Geertz formalised this commitment in the distinction between thin description, which catalogues observable behaviour, and thick description, which records the meaning that behaviour carries for those who enact it. ② On this account, interpretation is not a betrayal of objectivity but the very condition under which the cultural object becomes available to inquiry. ③ Quine's argument about radical translation sharpens this worry: any pattern of speech and conduct admits more than one consistent assignment of meaning, and observation alone cannot adjudicate between them. ④ Each ethnographic account therefore organises its subject for a reader, suppressing the rival framings that the same evidence would equally have sustained. ⑤ An ethnographer's claim to have grasped another culture invites examination rather than simple acceptance.

In experimental work on motivation, children who are given coloured markers and a free period in which to draw will sometimes draw for the rest of the period, sometimes briefly, and sometimes not at all. The variable that turns out to matter is what is announced before the drawing begins. Children told they will receive a 'good drawer' certificate spend less time drawing, both during the session and in unobserved later sessions, than children given no such announcement. The reduction is not consistent with simple satiation, since it persists when the certificate is no longer offered. The change appears at the level of how the children construe the activity. With the certificate in view, drawing becomes work performed in expectation of return; without it, drawing remains an activity worth doing on its own. The reward, present or remembered, has shifted what the activity is.

Throughout most of the history of Western music, composition and performance were inseparable activities. Johann Sebastian Bach wrote the Brandenburg Concertos with specific performers in mind, tailoring passages to the individual strengths and limitations of the musicians who would play them. A concerto was not an abstract text to be interpreted; it was a set of instructions calibrated to a particular ensemble at a particular moment. The composer, in other words, functioned less as an author producing a fixed work than as a collaborator whose written score represented one stage in an ongoing negotiation between intention and execution.

The nineteenth century disrupted this relationship fundamentally. As the musicologist Lydia Goehr has argued in The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works, the Romantic era introduced the idea that a musical composition exists as an ideal object, independent of any single performance. Beethoven's symphonies, on this view, are not constituted by the sounds produced in a concert hall; they exist in some more permanent form of which each performance is merely an imperfect approximation. This shift elevated the composer to the status of a solitary genius and demoted the performer to the role of a faithful transmitter. Ironically, the very ideology that celebrated individual creative expression diminished the creative contribution of the performers without whom no composition could be heard. As the written score gained prestige, recognition of the interpretive labour that brings it to life was lost. Contemporary performance studies have begun to restore attention to this forgotten dimension, arguing that the performer's choices of tempo, dynamics, and phrasing do not merely reproduce the composer's intentions but suppress them in ways that constitute a genuinely creative act.

This shift elevated the composer to the status of a solitary genius and (a) demoted the performer to the role of a faithful transmitter. Ironically, the very ideology that celebrated individual creative expression (b) diminished the creative contribution of the performers without whom no composition could be heard. As the written score gained prestige, recognition of the interpretive labour that brings it to life was (c) lost. Contemporary performance studies have begun to (d) restore attention to this forgotten dimension, arguing that the performer's choices of tempo, dynamics, and phrasing do not merely reproduce the composer's intentions but (e) suppress them in ways that constitute a genuinely creative act.

Emma sat alone in the school lab, staring at her broken model for the science fair. For days, her hands had failed her again and again. Wires hung loose; tiny screws lay scattered across the table. Her best friend Claire once stayed late every evening to help, but for the past week, Claire had walked out right after class without a single word. Sitting in the heavy silence, Emma fought back tears. Their long friendship, perhaps, had quietly come to an end.

AThe next morning, Emma went to Ms. Han's classroom to ask for advice on her broken design. Ms. Han looked surprised the moment she saw her. "Didn't Claire tell you?" she asked gently. She then explained that Claire had been visiting every single evening, carefully copying instructions for repairing the model and asking question after question about Emma's project. Claire had begged Ms. Han not to mention any of this to Emma — a she wanted her to first try and solve the problem on her own.

BEmma stepped inside. Claire looked up, eyes wide, and quickly hid the thick notebook behind her back. Emma reached out and, after a brief, gentle hesitation, took it from her. The pages held careful notes — drawings e she at once recognized as Ms. Han's, copied with patient precision over several long evenings. "I didn't want to take this away from you," Claire whispered, almost in tears. "I just wanted to be ready, in case you needed me." Emma smiled, set the notebook down, and pulled her into a long, quiet hug.

CEmma stood in the empty hallway, replaying Ms. Han's words again and again in her mind. b She had assumed the worst about her closest friend without ever asking why. Slowly, c she walked toward the empty lab at the end of the corridor. Standing outside the closed door, Emma heard soft clicks from within — the familiar sound of small metal pieces being adjusted one by one. d She stepped quietly to the door and peered through the small glass window. Claire was inside alone, hunched over a thick notebook, working on the broken model with quiet care.