The confession is a ritual of discourse in which the speaking subject is also the subject of the statement; it is also a ritual that unfolds within a power relation … Beginning in the sixteenth century, this rite gradually detached itself from the sacrament of penance, and via the guidance of souls and the direction of conscience—the ars artium—emigrated toward pedagogy, relationships between adults and children, family relations, medicine, and psychiatry.

—Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality

Sylvia Plath wrote in a number of forms, including novels, but her main reputation comes from her work as a poet. It is her poetry, then, which calls for attention and assessment. In this short essay I shall try to make explicit the point of view from which I would approach Plath's poetry, one that accords special attention to the operation of the signifier, to the formal properties of poetry, and the place of her poetry (with one poem as a particular example) within the developing and uneven tradition of twentieth-century poetry in English. And that itself is defined partly by its connection back to the poetry that came before within the Romantic inheritance.

To set in the foreground Plath's poetry in its relation to poetic tradition involves marking a distinct separation between author and text. Reading a text in a context of interpretation a reader applies the various rules he or she knows for the language of that text—phonetic, syntactic, semantic—to produce a meaning from the ‘words’, the signifiers organised in that text. Although it would not be possible to read a poem without a sense of its author's intention, no intention can fill the writing so completely it must govern our reading of it; in a text ‘it is language which speaks, not the author’,¹ and meaning will always spill beyond the text, beyond any known intention, beyond any context of interpretation.

POETIC TRADITION: WORDSWORTH, TENNYSON, HARDY

Identification of poem with author was promoted at the Renaissance but ratcheted up to an extreme point in the Romantic movement. Romanticism believed the text should as far as possible express its author's personal experience—‘Poetry’, as Wordsworth writes in the ‘Preface’ to the Lyrical Ballads ‘is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings’.² Yet Romanticism knows that expression, no matter how intense and sincere, can never actually by-pass the signifier,³ a knowledge which increasingly presses in on the poetry written in England in the nineteenth century. There are a variety of ways to refer to the causes for this pressure but I would stress how the rapid development of modernity renders the apparent self-sufficiency of the individual subject increasingly impossible by revealing its dependence on Darwinian nature, on its positioning in the social formation, on the process of the unconscious and of the body.

While the Romantic poet would efface the unbridgeable gap between signifier and meaning, by the middle of the nineteenth century a poet such as Tennyson aims to make the best of a necessarily bad job by creating a plenitude of the sign, as Alan Sinfield suggests:

In Tennyson's writing any particular word has, or appears to have, many reasons for being appropriate: it is linked to other words through effects of sound and rhythm, syntactical parallelism, and figurative associations which may extend through a network of images across hundreds of lines; and passages which seem ornate rather than organic also seem to make the word more substantial in itself. Thus the arbitrariness of language seems to be controlled.⁴

This self-defeating struggle to deal with the arbitrariness of language by holding meaning onto word, signified onto signifier, is advanced to a further stage in the poetry of Hardy, in a lyric or concessional mode whose pre-Modernist achievement is of crucial significance for assessment of English poetry thereafter.

This is Hardy's poem, ‘The Voice’:

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
          Thus I; faltering forward,
          Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
          And the woman calling.(5)

December 1912

Statement in the first and fourth verse framing questions in the second and third verse; in the second verse she may be a real ghost, in the third she may be dead and merely imagined on the basis of memory but in the extraordinary final stanza the supernatural/natural distinction is blurred as hearing replaces sight. Sexuality is taken up in the discourse of confession, individualising the speaker as he struggles to articulate the inward truth about himself and his love. Across the first three verses the absent lover stands in as addressee for second-person discourse but after a self-referring gesture (‘Thus I’) the last verse moves into third-person discourse—she is named in the final line as ‘the woman’ and the reader is admitted to the position of addressee and implied interlocutor. All this finds its place in terms of the lyric tradition, stretching back to Petrarch, in which a male speaker idealises a dead lover.

But Hardy's lyric discourse of the personal voice agonising to express what is deepest within its unique recesses is set within or against a kind of writing which, relative to the lyric tradition in Wordsworth and then Tennyson, forces the formal properties of poetry on the attention of the reader. The metre is highly wrought (largely dactylic in the first three stanzas), linking it with Victorian music-hall ballad, patter songs in Gilbert and Sullivan and even the limerick, as do the rhymes (‘call to me’/‘all to me’) and such coinages as ‘listlessness’ and ‘wistlessness’ (a rhyme whose elaborate contrivance the then still unpublished Hopkins would not have shunned).

Does this work/play of the poetic signifier in ‘The Voice’ subvert entirely our sense of the represented reality of the speaker caught in the velleities of inner emotion? I don't think it does. In the first place these are poetic effects—in metre and rhyme—consistent with the status of the text as poetry, organised therefore into lines on the basis of parallelism in the signifier. And, significantly, they are not sustained—or sustained with this degree of elaboration—into the final four lines where dactylic movement gives way to trochaic (in three out of the four lines) and, although there is phonemic repetition (the /f/ sound in ‘faltering’, ‘forward’, ‘Leaves’ and ‘falling’), rhyme is eschewed which is too obviously contrived (‘forward’/‘norward’, ‘falling’/‘calling’). In other words, the poem moves from a certain foregrounding of poetic effects in the first three stanzas to what, relative to this, must count as direct expression of the represented speaker in the simplicity of the last lines. So the degree to which the poem acknowledges the dependence of signified upon signifier in fact operates a strategy of recuperation, once again aiming to contain, manage and control the arbitrariness of language, as in Tennyson. As in Tennyson but with a difference, for the judgement that Hardy's ‘The Voice’ exemplifies recuperation becomes valid from a point of view which situates the poem within different historical conditions from those surrounding the work of Tennyson. The insistence of the signifier is squeezing Hardy's writing more tightly than before and it is a measure of its continuing interest that it recognises that pressure. One might overdramatise the situation by saying that in these lyrics of the years just before the First World War Hardy's writing almost foresees the impending crisis of Modernism but retains a pre-Modernist privileging of voice over signifier.

With Modernism and the conditions to which Modernist poetry responds that relation is reversed. On one side the self-standing individual becomes problematised—as Pound wrote in 1916:

In the ‘search for oneself’, in the search for ‘sincere self-expression’, one gropes, one finds some seeming verity. One says ‘I am’ this, that or the other, and with the words scarcely uttered one ceases to be that thing.⁶

On the other, the primacy and foundational insistence of the signifier as the condition within which subjectivity emerges becomes openly acknowledged, so that, as Eliot's essay on ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’ of 1919 asserts, critical attention must now be directed ‘not upon the poet but upon poetry’ for the poet now has (is) ‘only a medium and not a personality’.⁷ These can be seen as accurate and perceptive comments on a practice which expands continuously from Eliot's The Waste Land of 1922:

O the moon shone bright on Mrs Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la couple!
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd
Tereu,

to Pound's The Pisan Cantos, published in 1948,

Incense to Apollo
                                                  Carrara
                                                                      snow on the marble
snow white
                              against stone-white
on the mountain
and as who passed the gorges between the sheer cliffs
as it might be by, is it the Garonne?

After such knowledge, what forgiveness?

To find an appropriate attitude to the massive intervention in the first thirty years of the present century of what we now somewhat reductively term ‘Modernism’ one might well take as a point of departure Jacques Lacan's outrageous assertion that ‘the slightest alteration in the relation between man (sic) and the signifier … changes the whole course of history’.⁸ From Modernism on, as the Minervan flight of post-structuralism shows, the ineluctable dependence of presence on difference, of imaginary plenitude on the symbolic order of the signifier, cannot be evaded. Or rather it can, but only at the price of repeating what has been done before and disavowing the consequences (for poetry) of writing such as that of Eliot and Pound.

BACK TO HARDY

If the template of this argument is tested against contemporary British poetry the analysis that follows from it is, I find, bleak in the extreme. As Andrew Crozier has shown in a solidly convincing article,⁹ the hegemonic post-war tradition, emerging from the Movement of the 1950s and promoted virtually on all sides by the literary pages of The Guardian, John Carey in The Sunday Times, much of the academic press and whenever poetry is mentioned on Channel 4 and BBC 2, consists of a line of succession that runs from Philip Larkin through Ted Hughes¹⁰ to Seamus Heaney. This is what Charles Bernstein has spoken of as the British High Anti-Modernist tradition and it is characterised by an endeavour to represent the empirical individual, staged in terms of the depths of the inward self, with a corresponding necessity to deny, contain or—on Hardyesque precedent—to recuperate the operation of the signifier. A precondition for this lyric-confessional mainstream tradition to hold sway is that the Modernism of Eliot and Pound should be concreted over leaving the road directly open back to the comfort of Hardy.

A. Alvarez in his well-known introduction to his collection, The New Poetry, published by Penguin in 1962, lays down at the level of argument how this procedure may be defended. Move one is to dismiss the break with the pentameter and traditional metric forced through especially by Pound's Modernism on the grounds that they are not English:

… the experimental techniques of Eliot and the rest never really took on in England because they were an essentially American concern: attempts to forge a distinctively American language for poetry.¹¹

(One might note in passing the ‘essentially American’ nature of Modernist experimental techniques in Kafka, Pirandello, Joyce, Apollinaire, etc.). Move two is to insinuate that such experimentalism leads to right-wing politics—‘the whole movement of English verse has been to correct the balance experimentation had so unpredictably disturbed’, says Alvarez after mentioning how Eliot came out for Anglo-Catholicism, royalism and classicism.

The ‘most far-reaching influence (in British poetry) of the last 50 years’, writes Donald Davie in 1973, is ‘not Yeats, still less Eliot or Pound, not Lawrence, but Hardy’.¹² Davie goes on to confirm this judgement by (1) dismissing the relevance of Eliot and Pound to the English tradition on the grounds that they were American, (2) implying a link between Modernism and right-wing politics. And just as Alvarez had done, Davie cites with entire approval Hardy's remark to Robert Graves that ‘vers libre could come to nothing in England’.¹³ It's impossible to disagree with this assessment of the poetry of Larkin, Hughes and Heaney. Such work is Hardyesque, essentially Georgian poetry in the lyric-confessional mode except that to Hardy's recuperation of the signifier it adds what it has indeed taken on board from Modernism, a certain patina or decoration of techniques in vocabulary and metaphor which it turns mainly to the purposes of a more plausible expressiveness. Though the overt influence on Sylvia Plath's work was the confessional poetry of Robert Lowell rather than that of Hardy, her poetry falls into the same category, at least on the evidence of the poem I shall look at here.

THE OPERATION OF THE SIGNIFIER IN ‘DADDY’

Plath's poem, ‘Daddy’ appears on pp. 222-4 of her Collected Poems.¹⁴ I shall not cite it in full both because it is too well-known and because I want to consider it by setting a distance between my reading and that of Jacqueline Rose given pre-eminence as the concluding chapter of her book, The Haunting of Sylvia Plath.¹⁵ Rose advances a subtle, challenging and complex argument, and I hope I have followed it clearly.

Two things at issue merit initial discussion, Eliot's concept of the ‘objective correlative’, the relation between the I of enunciation and the I of the enounced or statement. Eliot defines an objective correlative by saying that emotion in art can only be expressed by finding an objective correlative, ‘a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion’,¹⁶ in other words, that objects, situations, events which are correlative to emotion have to be read as a representation of subjectivity. But this is not how all poetry offers itself to be read, as for example in these lines from The Waste Land:

Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth …

Certainly these images perform as an objective correlative for subjectivity and a state of mind (paranoia, hallucination, madness) but at the same time they invite reading in a range of social and political discourses referring them to the First World War, the use of gas-masks (‘hooded hordes’) and trench warfare. What inclines reading in one direction or another is the mode of poetic representation. So, if a consistent speaker were represented for the lines, they would be mainly an objective correlative for his or her emotion; since, in Eliot's poem there is a radical uncertainty as to whether the lines express a subjectivity or stand merely as a form of textuality, they invite both ‘personal’ and ‘historical’ readings at once.

Not so, typically, with Yeats. In ‘The Wild Swans at Coole’, for example, the reference to how the swans ‘All suddenly mount’ and scatter ‘in wheeling in great broken rings’ can be read in the context of zoological discourse and the behaviour of swans. It is, however, mainly an objective correlative for a certain emotion, a feeling for beauty that aspires to transcendence and a somewhat phallic power. A reader is pushed towards that because the lines occur in a poem which carefully sustains the representation of a consistent and coherent self watching and thinking about the swans and what they mean for him.

The planes of signifier and signified always remain disjunct, and two positions for the speaking subject need to be distinguished, one as subject of the signifier or process of enunciation, another as subject of the signified or enounced or statement. In Lacan's now famous exemplum,¹⁷ someone who says ‘I am lying’, is not committing themselves to paradox but enacting the disjunction between the two ‘I's (enunciation/enounced) which happen to be designated by the same shifter, the first person pronoun. So someone under interrogation might admit, ‘I am lying’, meaning that the liar is, as it were, the person represented in their own discourse. Or, by saying ‘I can't think of anything to say’, someone positioned as subject of the enounced denies what as subject of enunciation they enact and so affirm.

Performing a poem (silently or aloud) the reader as speaking subject is placed as subject of enunciation for that text so that what is represented ‘in’ the poem becomes for them its enounced, and that enounced may well have a subject. In pre-Modernist poetry such as Hardy's ‘The Voice’ and Yeats's ‘Wild Swans at Coole’ the use of ‘I’ is supported and held together around a recognisable psychological state, thus encouraging the speaking subject to overlook his or her positioning as subject of the enunciation and identify with the speaker represented in the poem. This is precisely the mode of representation of lyric-confessional discourse Foucault describes when he defines confession as ‘a ritual of discourse in which the speaking subject is also the subject of the statement’.¹⁸ The importance of these brusquely summarised distinctions will become clearer in a minute.

ROSE'S COMMENTARY

Jacqueline Rose's extended commentary on Plath's ‘Daddy’ gives most space to possible meanings of the text, arguing that it is a poem ‘of the murder of the father’ (p. 222) whose narrative moves ‘from victimisation to revenge’ (p. 223), a murder in which, according to the logic of the unconscious mechanism of deferred action (Nachtraglichkeit), ‘the father who is killed is already dead’ (p. 224).

The poem has been attacked by critics for its deployment of the Holocaust, a criticism epitomised in one view that ‘Whatever her father did to her it cannot be what the Germans did to the Jews’ (cited Rose, p. 206). Rose summarises these criticisms as the views that (1) ‘in aesthetic terms, what Plath is being criticised for is a lack of “objective correlative”’, (2) ‘only those who directly experienced the Holocaust have the right to speak of it’ (p. 206).

In defending Plath, Rose first sustains a long, serious and important argument against (2), affirming the necessity, even at the price of some forms of sado-masochistic identifications, that those who have not directly experienced the Holocaust should encounter it in fantasy as, among things, a means to begin to work it through in the psychoanalytic sense (the argument has recently come alive again over Schindler's List). Since the perspective of this argument concentrates on thematic meaning rather than matters of signification I'll not pursue the question of fantasy in ‘Daddy’ except to remark that a reading of Freud would provoke us to think about the masochistic side of the speaker's fantasies in relation to the essay on “‘A Child is Being Beaten’”,¹⁹ while a reading of Lacan might encourage us to ask what may be masked by this fantasy structure.

Difficulties in Rose's argument occur, for me, with (1)—not so much (to anticipate) the poem's lack of an objective correlative but rather that it uses the Holocaust mainly as an objective correlative. The question, as Rose concludes, depends on the ‘conditions of representation’ (p. 214) operating in the text, that is, I take it, an issue which largely resolves into a formal question.

In her analysis of the poem and its conditions of representation Rose makes three related assertions:

(1) The poem presents ‘a crisis of language and identity’ (p. 228) caused by a process in which ‘identity and language lose themselves in the place of the father whose absence gives him unlimited powers’ (p. 227).

(2) This crisis of language and identity is registered in the text especially in two instances. On the lines

Ich, ich, ich ich
I could hardly speak …

Rose comments that ‘The notorious difficulty of the first-person pronoun in relation to identity—its status as shifter, the division or splitting of the subject which it both carries and denies—is merely compounded by its repetition here’ (p. 226). Noting that ‘In the poem, the “I” moves backwards and forwards between German and English’, she refers this to ‘the dispersal of identity in language’ (p. 226).

(3) Rose argues that it is the ‘crisis of representation in the place of the father which is presented by Plath as engendering—forcing, even—her identification with the Jew’ (p. 227); that identification equates the father with a Nazi, so leading into images of the Holocaust such that, Rose claims, ‘Plath's poem enters into one of the key phantasmic scenarios of Nazism itself’ (p. 232).

A first response to this would be to ask who is meant in the argument by ‘Plath’ as when it is said that the crisis of representation in the poem is ‘presented by Plath’ (p. 227), that the poem exhibits ‘Plath's use of simile (p. 228), that ‘Plath stages this (event) … as part of a crisis of language and identity’ (p. 228). Is this merely a convenient and conventional way of identifying a text or is something deeper at stake? In the third example ‘Plath’ is distinguished from ‘the poem’ and its ‘speaker’ but in the other two, for example, ‘Plath’ is not separated clearly from the poem's represented speaker.

What to me is so striking about Plath's ‘Daddy’ is the sustained coherence and stability of its represented speaker, the I which runs across and is confirmed at every instance in:

I have lived …
I have had to kill you …
I used to pray …
I never could tell …
I never could talk …
I could hardly speak …
I thought every German …
I began to talk like …
I think I may …
I may be …
I have always …
I was ten …

and so on to the end, ‘I'm through’. One could argue that such insistent affirmation on self-identity by the represented speaker might deny its own confidence. Identity is always an effect, always in play, but the poem represents a speaker whose identity is substantiated and confirmed throughout by a consistent individual state of mind, a psychological unity which is very much that Rose defines—in imagining the father's death, the represented speaker moves from victimisation to revenge. If you can still say ‘I think I'm having a crisis’, your subjectivity is still very much in place; for an example of a radical crisis in identity and language you have to turn to the closing eleven lines of The Waste Land.

Identity is never wholly unified but, given this degree of pre-existing integrity in the represented speaker, it is hard to see how it is deeply split by the repetition of the German ‘Ich’, especially since any momentary disturbance is immediately made good when the speaker comments retrospectively on this disturbance, ‘I could hardly speak …’. If the speaker is represented as experiencing such a split (an effect with precedents as far back as Tintern Abbey), far from producing a crisis that reminds us we are reading a poem, it in fact stages the speaker's state of mind more convincingly. Nor can I see a movement between German and English as entailing a ‘dispersal of identity in language’ since again that movement is explained by the state of mind of the represented speaker who reflects upon it, ‘I thought every German was you’.

In the dominant poetic tradition from Wordsworth on represented speakers frequently refer to themselves and their own thoughts so that a split between subject of enunciation and subject of enounced is represented by the poem as something the speaker feels. And, according to the same strategy, represented speakers often imagine identities for themselves. In Wordsworth's The Prelude the represented speaker identifies with a version of his earlier self, just as, in a rather different way, the represented speaker of ‘The Wild Swans at Coole’ rather imagines himself as a swan. Far from undermining the stability of identity represented by the text such manoeuvres actually tend to strengthen it, by admitting and holding in place what might threaten to dissolve such stability. So it is very much in accord with tradition that the speaker represented in ‘Daddy’ begins to imagine an identity for herself. For me it is crucial that this kind of slide in identity does not occur, as it does so often in The Waste Land or The Cantos, as an unanticipated change of discourse, of textuality. Far from it: the represented speaker in ‘Daddy’ makes the situation clear, ‘I think I may well be a Jew’. The first ‘I’ is firmly in place holding up the second as a provisional and temporary identity.

A temporary identity for what purpose? Here perhaps we should retrieve the points made earlier about ‘objective correlative’. How far is the very powerful material in the poem circulating around the fantasies Rose acutely describes made available for contextualisation in historical and social discourses and how far as personal expression? Though of course the two can never be fully separated, the nodal factor is the mode of representation. I would propose that a necessary condition for historical contextualisation (‘as historical reference’, p. 216) is the kind of relatively unanchored textuality specified earlier in the lines about ‘hooded hordes’ in The Waste Land. But ‘Daddy’ does not work like this since it seeks throughout to efface and control textuality in the service of representing a speaker and her state of mind. To that extent the images from the Holocaust function as objective correlatives for a personal emotion, are appropriated to express a version of the self. There is, then, justice in the claim that ‘Whatever her father did to her it cannot be what the Germans did to the Jews’ if it is read to mean something like, ‘To adapt some of the most intense and overwhelming historical discourses of the twentieth-century as means to express mental suffering caused to an individual by a personal relationship is to diminish and reduce those discourses’.

Rose accepts that in ‘Daddy’ there is a ‘preliminary privileging of the personal’ (p. 223). I find this privileging to be not preliminary but comprehensive, ensuing as it does from the poem's failure to challenge the inherited lyric-confessional mode in which it is written. On my showing ‘Daddy’ is a humanist poem, and a pretty old-fashioned one, inviting comparison with the work in the confessional voice of Plath's mentor, Robert Lowell, ‘The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket’ and so on. The problem with such poetry, aiming as it does to put at the centre of writing a dramatisation of the unified self, is that, as Toril Moi argues, it conforms to a ‘humanist ideology’ in which ‘the self is the sole author of history and of the literary text’.²⁰

My argument has concentrated upon Plath's poetry especially in relation to its formal effects and to a certain sense of poetic tradition. This is obviously not the only perspective on Plath's writing, nor is it necessarily the most important. There are lots of other ways of reading her work and reaching very different conclusions.

Notes

1. Roland Barthes, ‘The Death of the Author’, Image-Music-Text (London, Fontana, 1977), p. 143.

2. William Wordsworth, Lyrical Ballads ed. R. L. Brett and A. R. Jones (London, Methuen, 1965), p. 246.

3. The situation of the poet, Wordsworth concedes, is ‘slavish and mechanical, compared with the freedom and power of real and substantial action and suffering’, ibid., p. 256.

4. Alan Sinfield, Tennyson (Oxford, Blackwell, 1986), p. 86.

5. Thomas Hardy, Poems of Thomas Hardy: A New Selection, ed. T. R. M. Creighton (London, Macmillan, 1974), p. 57. In line 11 the MS has ‘consigned to existlessness’.

6. Ezra Pound, Gaudier-Brzeska: A Memoir (Hessle, Yorkshire, Marvell Press, 1960), p. 85.

7. T. S. Eliot, Selected Essays (London, Faber, 1961), p. 17, p. 20.

8. Jacques Lacan, Ecrits: A Selection (London, Tavistock, 1977), p. 174.

9. Andrew Crozier, ‘Thrills and frills: poetry as figures of empirical lyricism’, Society and Literature 1945-1970 ed. Alan Sinfield (London, Methuen, 1983), pp. 199-233.

10. I have tried to justify this argument in more detail with reference to Ted Hughes in ‘Why most Contemporary Poetry is so bad and how Post-Structuralism may be able to help’, PN Review 12, 4 (November/December 1985), pp. 36-38.

11. A. Alvarez, ‘The New Poetry or Beyond the Gentility Principle’, The New Poetry (Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1962), p. 17.

12. Donald Davie, Thomas Hardy and English Poetry (London, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1973), p. 3.

13. Alvarez, The New Poetry, p. 17 and Davie, Thomas Hardy, p. 131.

14. Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems (London, Faber, 1981).

15. Jacqueline Rose, The Haunting of Sylvia Plath (London, Virago, 1991).

16. Eliot, Selected Essays, p. 145.

17. See Jacques Lacan, Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis (London, Hogarth Press, 1977), p. 139.

18. Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality v. 1 (Harmondsworth, Pelican, 1981), p. 61.

19. Sigmund Freud, “‘A Child is being Beaten’”, Standard Edition 17, pp. 175-204.

20. Toril Moi, Sexual/Textual Politics (London, Methuen, 1985), p. 8.