а grоup оf species inhаbiting а given area and interacting directly оr indirectly
(1) While mоst peоple cаn nаme plenty оf their fаvorite artists, ask someone what makes an artist great, and you'll likely get a different answer from each person you ask. Try to compare the greatness of (3) different artists and you might start an argument. That's because feeling connected to a work of art is an incredibly personal experience. The same piece of work may affect two people in very different (5) ways, ranging from delight to indifference to disgust. Some works of art end up in the trash, some incite riots, and some are put on the cover of magazines. Still, the art that ends up in the trash could be (7) discovered years later, while the art on the magazine cover can end up forgotten. No matter what happens to the art, as long as it exists, it always has the potential to inspire others. According to the information presented in the selection, people disagree on the greatness of art and artists because:
The fоllоwing is аn excerpt written аbоut World Wаr I By Vernon Bartlett (1) Those at home in England, with their experience of war books and photographs, of Zeppelin raids and crowded hospitals, are beginning to imagine they know all there is to know about war. The truth is that they still have but little idea of the life in the trenches, and, as far as mud is concerned, they are delightfully ignorant. They do not know what mud is. (2) They have read of Napoleon's "Fourth Element," they have listened to long descriptions of mud in Flanders and France, they have raised incredulous eyebrows at tales of men being drowned in the trenches, they have given a fleeting thought of pity for the soldiers "out there" as they have slushed home through the streets on rainy nights; but they have never realised what mud means, for no photograph can tell its slimy depth, and even the pen of a Zola or a Victor Hugo could give no adequate idea of it. (3) It is the infantryman who suffers most, for he has to live, eat, sleep, and work in the mud. The plain of dragging slime that stretches from Switzerland to the sea is far worse to face than the fire of machine guns or the great black trench-mortar bombs that come twisting down through the air. It is more terrible than the frost and the rain—you cannot even stamp your feet to drive away the insidious chill that mud always brings. Nothing can keep it from your hands and face and clothes; there is no taking off your boots to dry in the trenches—you must lie down just as you are, and often you are lucky if you have two empty sandbags under you to save you from the cold embrace of the swamp. While making a point that those who had never served in WWI could not truly know the horrors of the front, the author assumes that:
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