東大過去問 2016年 第5問(総合)

/ 4月 13, 2020/ 第5問(総合), 東大過去問, 過去問/ 0 comments




Last year, there was great public protest against the use of “anti-homeless” spikes outside a London residential complex, not far from where I live. The spikes were sharp pieces of metal stuck in concrete to keep people from sitting or lying on the ground. Social media were filled with anger, a petition was signed, a sleep-in protest undertaken, and within a few days the spikes were removed. But the phenomenon of “defensive” or “hostile” architecture, as it is known, remains common.
From bus-shelter seats that lean forward, to water sprinklers, hard tube-like rests, and park benches with solid dividers, urban spaces are aggressively ( 26 ) soft, human bodies.
We see these measures all the time within our urban environments, whether in London or Tokyo, but we fail to grasp (A)their true intent. I hardly noticed them before I became homeless in 2009. An economic crisis, a death in the family, a sudden divorce and an even more sudden mental breakdown were all it took for me to go from a more than decent income to being homeless in the space of a year. It was only then, when I started looking around my surroundings with the distinct purpose of ( 27 ) shelter, that the city’s cruelty became clear.
I learned to love London Underground’s Circle Line back then. To others it was just a rather inefficient line on the subway network. To me ― and many homeless people ― it was a safe, dry warm container, continually travelling sometimes above the surface, sometimes below, like a giant needle stitching London’s center into place. Nobody bothered you or made you move. You were allowed to take your poverty on tour. But engineering work put a stop to that.
Next was a bench in a smallish park just off a main road. It was an old, wooden bench, made smooth by thousands of sitters, underneath a tree with leaves so thick that only the most persistent rain could penetrate it. Sheltered and warm, this was prime property. Then, one morning, it was gone. In its place stood an uncomfortable metal perch, with three solid armrests. I felt such loss that day. The message was clear: I was not a member of the public, at least not of the public that is welcome here. I had to find somewhere else to go.
There is a wider problem, too. These measures do not and cannot distinguish the homeless from others considered more ( 28 ). When we make it impossible for the poor to rest their weary bodies at a bus shelter, we also make it impossible for the elderly, for the handicapped, for the pregnant woman who needs rest. By making the city less ( 29 ) of the human body, we make it less welcoming to all humans.
Hostile architecture is ( 30 ) on a number of levels, because it is not the product of accident or thoughtlessness, but a thought process. It is a sort of unkindness that is considered, designed, approved, funded and made real with the explicit motive to threaten and exclude.
Recently, as I walked into my local bakery, a homeless man (whom I had seen a few times before) asked whether I could get him something to eat. When I asked Ruth ― one of the young women who work behind the counter ― to put a couple of meat pies in a separate bag and (B)explained why, her remark was severe: “He probably makes more money than you from begging, you know,” she said, coldly.
He probably didn’t. Half his face was covered with sores. A blackened, badly injured toe stuck out of a hole in his ancient shoe. His left hand was covered in dry blood from some recent accident or fight. I pointed this out. Ruth was unmoved by my protest. “I don’t care,” she said. “They foul the green area. They’re dangerous. Animals.”
It’s precisely this viewpoint that hostile architecture upholds: that the homeless are a different species altogether, inferior and responsible for their fall. Like pigeons to be chased away, or urban foxes disturbing our sleep with their screams. “You should be ashamed,” jumped in Libby, the older lady who works at the bakery. (C)“That is someone’s son you’re talking about.”
Poverty exists as a parallel, but separate, reality. City planners work very hard to keep it outside our field of vision. It is too miserable, too discouraging, too painful to look at someone sleeping in a doorway and think of him as “someone’s son.” It is easier to see him and only ask the question:(31)“How does his homelessness affect me?” So we cooperate with urban design and work very hard at not seeing, because we do not want to see. We silently agree to this apartheid.
Defensive architecture keeps poverty unseen. It conceals any guilt about leading a comfortable life. It brutally reveals our attitude to poverty in general and homelessness in particular. It is the concrete, spiked expression of a collective lack of generosity of spirit.
And, of course, it doesn’t even achieve its basic goal of making us feel safer. (32)There is no way of locking others out that doesn’t also lock us in.Making our urban environment hostile breeds hardness and isolation. It makes life a little uglier for all of us.





The man you’re talking about is no less ( ) than you are.



(a) accepting
(b) depriving
(c) deserving
(d) finding
(e) forcing
(f) implying
(g) raising
(h) rejecting
(i) revealing
(j) satisfying


(a) Seeing this homeless person upsets me.
(b) His homelessness has an impact on everyone.
(c) I wonder how I can offer help to this homeless person.
(d) This homeless person has no right to sleep in the doorway.
(e) I wonder whether this homeless person has any relevance to my life at all.


(a) Defensive architecture harms us all.
(b) Ignoring homelessness won’t make it go away.
(c) Restrictions on the homeless are for their own good.
(d) Homeless people will always be visible whatever we do.
(e) For security, we have to keep homeless people put of sight.





(A) ホームレスの人々が座ったり寝たりできる場所をなくし、都市環境から排除する意図。
(B) ミートパイを2つ、別の袋に入れるように注文したのは、ホームレスの男性にあげるためであるということ。
(C) human
(D) (ア) (26) h
(27) d
(28) c
(29) a
(30) i
(イ) (e)
(ウ) (a)
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