Reason betrays men into the drawing of hard and fast lines

Life, they urge, would be intolerable if men were to be guided in all they did by reason and reason only. Reason betrays men into the drawing of hard and fast lines, and to the defining by lagnuage – language being like the sun, which rears and then scorches. Extremes are alone logical, but they are always absurd; the mean is illogical, but an illogical mean is better than the sheer absurdity of an extreme. There are no follies and no unreasonablenesses so great as those which can apparently be irrefragably defended by reason itself, and there is hardly an error into which men may not easily be led if they base their conduct upon reason only.

Samuel Butler, Erewhon (Penguin Books, 1970) p. 187

We are all robbers

For property is robbery, but then, we are all robbers or would-be robbers together, and have found it essential to organise our thieving, as we have found it necessary to organise our lust and our revenge. Property, marriage, the law; as the bed to the river, to rule and convention to the instinct; and woe to him who tampers with the banks while the flood is flowing.

Samuel Butler, Erewhon (Penguin Books, 1970) p. 120

What is urbanism?

What is urbanism? A superstructure of neocapitalist society, a form of "organizational capitalism," which is not the same as "organized capital" – in other words, a bureaucratic society of controlled consumption. Urbanism organizes a sector that appears to be free and accessible, open to rational activity: inhabited space. It controls the consumption of space and the habitat. As superstructure, it must be distinguished from practice, from social relationships, from society itself. [...] It is only from an ideological and institutional point of view, however, that urbanism reveals to critical analysis the illusions that it harbors and that foster its implementation. In this light, urbanism appears as the vehicle for a limited and tendentious rationality in which space, deceptively neutral and apolitical, constitutes an object (objective).

Henri Lefebvre, The Urban Revolution (University of Minnesota Press, 2003) pp. 163-164

Optimism's tenacity

Optimism has one thing in its favor – its tenacity.

Henri Lefebvre, The Urban Revolution (University of Minnesota Press, 2003) p. 146

Build and dwell

The human being cannot build and dwell, that is to say, possess a dwelling in which he lives, without also possessing something more (or less) than himself: his relation to the possible and the imaginary.

Henri Lefebvre, The Urban Revolution (University of Minnesota Press, 2003) p. 82

Horizons of expectations

We will not reclaim a future qualitatively different form the present by reinvesting in the idea of horizon. At its best, contemporary art models experimental practices of negation that puncture horizons of expectations.

Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not At All (Verso, 2013) p. 211

History is inherently utopian

History is about the future in at least two ways. On the one hand, it is only from the standpoint of a particular future that the ultimate object of history – the unity of the human – can be thought. In this respect, history (like art) is inherently utopian. This is something that ties art to history. It is beyond the scope of all actually existing social subjects.

Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not At All (Verso, 2013) p. 194

Art creates demand

'It has always been one of the primary tasks of art', Benjamin argued, 'to create a demand whose hour of satisfaction has not yet come.' It is as demand that art functions politically. Boredom intensifies the demand.

Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not At All (Verso, 2013) p. 184

Profound boredom

Profound boredom is the feeling of time in its ability to expand itself.

Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not At All (Verso, 2013) p. 183

Art and distraction

But if what art must distract its viewers from – in order to function critically as art – is not just the cares and worries of the world, but, increasingly, distraction (entertainment) itself, how to distract from distraction without simply reproducing it? How is art to be received in distraction without becoming just another distraction? Alternatively, how is art to distract from distraction without losing touch with distraction, without entering another realm altogether? – 'contemplative immersion' in the work – with no relation to other distractions, and thereby becoming the vehicle of a flight from actuality, from the very temporal structure of experience which it must engage with if it is to be 'contemporary' and affective?

Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not At All (Verso, 2013) p. 178

the stasis of a present moment

If modernity projects a present of permanent transition, forever reaching beyond itself, the contemporary fixes or enfolds such transitoriness within the duration of a conjuncture, or at its most extreme, the stasis of a present moment.

Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not At All (Verso, 2013) p. 24

Con-temporaneity

What seems distinctive and important about the changing temporal quality of the historical present over the last few decades is best expressed through the distinctive conceptual grammar of con-temporaneity, a coming together not simply 'in' time, but of times: we do not just live or exist together 'in time' with our contemporaries – as if time itself is indifferent to this existing together – but rather the present is increasingly characterized by a coming together of different but equally 'present' temporalities or 'times', a temporal unity in disjunction, or a disjunctive unity of present times.'

Peter Osborne, Anywhere or Not At All (Verso, 2013) p. 17

Abstraction's modus operandi is devastation

Abstraction passes for an 'absence' – as distinct from the concrete 'presence' of objects, of things. Nothing could be more false. For abstraction's modus operandi is devastation, destruction (even if such destruction may sometimes herald creation). Signs have something lethal about them – not by virtue of 'latent' or so-called unconscious forces, but, on the contrary, by virtue of the forced introduction of abstraction into nature. The violence involved does not stem from some force intervening aside fro rationality, outside or beyond it. Rather, it manifests itself from the moment any action introduces the rational into the real, from the outside, by means of tools which strike, slice and cut – and keep doing so until the purpose of their aggression is achieved. For space is also instrumental – indeed it is the most general of tools. The space of the countryside, as contemplated by the walker in search of the natural, was the outcome of a first violation of nature. The violence of abstraction unfolds in parallel with what we call 'history'.

Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Blackwell Publishing, 1991) p. 289

Stanza of the self-imposed siege

In the Middle Ages it was fear to allot allotments inside fortified walls for growing food during assaults.

Today new forces attempted to siege the city — but from within.

Today it is the time of sustainable gardens to reincarnate the new spectres of siege — and the ‘moral equivalent’ of war.

The pacified horizon of sustainability manifests like a wartime without war, the hostility of a silent Ghost Army.

The patriotic war for surplus has indeed moved its home front to the inner front.

The patriotic war is now the war on surplus: on the individual calculation of energy, water, proteins, and any social appetite.

As there is no longer an outside, within the ideology of degrowth we have established the borders of our own siege.

Urban cannibals — eat the rich!

Wietske Maas & Matteo Pasquinelli, 'Manifesto of Urban Cannibalism' at http://urbanibalism.org/Manifesto_Urban_Cannibalism_Berlin_notes.pdf (2013) p. 12

Stanza of the ternary dance

Life is a ternary movement far from equilibrium.
‘We parasite each other and live among parasites’.

We inhabit the perennial genesis: — natura naturans, the never-ending chain of organisms devouring one other right down to the invisible ones:

‘The fruit spoils, the milk sours, the wine turns into vinegar, the vegetables rot... Everything ferments, everything rots, everything changes’.

Microorganisms take our dead body back to the soil — putrefaction is still life.

Wietske Maas & Matteo Pasquinelli, 'Manifesto of Urban Cannibalism' at http://urbanibalism.org/Manifesto_Urban_Cannibalism_Berlin_notes.pdf (2013) p. 6

Stanza of the organic bunkers

Weed, beasts, insects, birds, and legions of organisms unseen: the most promiscuous republic ever declared was here in the urbanic air.

Even plague and pox were never passive folks: invisible architects, they redesigned streets and houses, shaping also our institutions, the form of hospitals and prisons.

Any wall is populated and consumed by the invisible food chains of microbes and mould, where the border between organic and inorganic life blurs.

Buildings breathe and ferment — architecture is the bunker of life.

Wietske Maas & Matteo Pasquinelli, 'Manifesto of Urban Cannibalism' at http://urbanibalism.org/Manifesto_Urban_Cannibalism_Berlin_notes.pdf (2013) p. 4

Stanza of the inorganic life

Urban cannibalism emerges from the biomorphic unconscious of the metropolis.

Innervated by flows of energy and matter, the urban landscape is alive.

Hydraulic forces ebb and surge through a tangled skein of canals and sewers, flowing water the main metabolism of the city.

But also buildings are liquid strata of minerals — just very slow.

It was eight thousand years ago: the city was born as the exoskeleton of the human, as the external concretion of our inner bones to protect the commerce of bodies in and out its walls.

As our bones absorb calcium from rocks, the inorganic shell of the city is but part of a deeper geological metabolism.

Fossils crushed and concealed within building’s bricks, organic memories of prediluvian beings petrified in the modern maze of concrete.

Wietske Maas & Matteo Pasquinelli, 'Manifesto of Urban Cannibalism' at http://urbanibalism.org/Manifesto_Urban_Cannibalism_Berlin_notes.pdf (2013) p. 3

Modes of using and consuming

What we have finally to say is that we live in a world in which the dominant mode of production and social relationships teaches, impresses, offers to make normal and even rigid, modes of detached, separated, external perception and action: modes of using and consuming rather than accepting and enjoying people and things.

Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (Oxford University Press, 1975) p. 298

We must make a distinction between technique and mode of production

But we must then also make a distinction between such techniques of production and the mode of production which is their particular social form. We call the technical changes improvement and progress, welcome some of their effects and deplore others, and can feel either numbed or divided; a state of mind in which, again and again, the most abstract and illusory ideas of a natural rural way of life tempt or at least charm us. Or we can fall back on saying that this is the human condition: the irresolvable choice between a necessary materialism and a necessary humanity. Often we try to resolve it by dividing work and leisure, or society and the individual, or city and country, not only in our minds but in suburbs and garden cities, town houses and country cottages, the week and the weekend. But we then usually find that the directors of the improvements, the captains of the change, have arrived earlier and settled deeper; have made, in fact, a more successful self-division. [...] An immensely productive capitalism, in all its stages, has extended both the resources and the modes which however unevenly, provide and contain forms of response to its effects.

Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (Oxford University Press, 1975) pp. 293-294

The complaints of change

It is useful, for example, to see three main periods of rural complaint in which a happier past is explicitly evoked: the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries; the late eighteenth and early nineteenth; the late nineteenth and early twentieth. And it is clear enough that each of these corresponds to a period of exceptional change in the rural economy, which we find directly reflected in varying ways. But it is not only that each of these reflections comes to include other social and metaphysical ideas. It is also that the convention of the country as a settled way of life disturbed by unwanted and external change has been complicated, in our own century, by very similar ideas about towns and cities. The complaints of rural change might come from threatened small proprietors, or from commoners, or even, in the twentieth century, from a class of landlords, but it is fascinating to hear some of the same phrases – destruction of a local community, the driving out of small men, indifference to settled and customary ways – in the innumerable campaigns about the effects of redevelopment, urban planning, airport and motorway systems, in so many twentieth-century towns and even, very strongly, in parts of London. I have heard a defence of Covent Garden, against plans for development, which repeated in almost every particular the defence of the commons in the period of parliamentary enclosures. Clearly ideas of the country and the city have specific contents and histories, but just as clearly, at times, they are forms of isolation and identification of more general processes. People have often said 'the city' when they meant capitalism or bureaucracy or centralised power, while 'the country', as we have seen, has at times meant everything from independence to deprivation, and from the powers of an active imagination to a form of release from consciousness.

Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (Oxford University Press, 1975) p. 291

The idea of traditional order is misleading

This is where the idea of a 'traditional' order is most effectively misleading. For there is no innocence in the established proprietors, at any particular point in time, unless we ourselves choose to put it there. Very few titles of property could bear humane investigation, in the long process of conquest, theft, political intrigue, courtiership, extortion and the power of money. It is a deep and persistent illusion to suppose that time confers on these familiar processes of acquisition an innocence which can be contrasted with the ruthlessness of subsequent stages of the same essential drives.

Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (Oxford University Press, 1975) p. 50

A simultaneous damnation and idealisation of capitalism

The great indictments of capitalism, and of its long record of misery in factories and towns, have co-existed, within a certain historical scheme, with this repeated use of 'progressive' as a willing adjective about the same events. We hear again and again this brisk, impatient and as it is said realistic response: to the productive efficiency, the newly liberated forces, of the capitalist breakthrough; a simultaneous damnation and idealisation of capitalism, in its specific forms of urban and industrial development; an unreflecting celebration of mastery – power, yield, production, man's mastery of nature – as if the exploitation of natural resources could be separated from the accompanying exploitation of men. What they say is damn this, praise this; and the intellectual formula for this emotional confusion is, hopefully, the dialectic. All that needs to be added, as the climax to a muddle, is the late observation, the saving qualification, that at a certain stage – is it now?; it was yesterday – capitalism begins to lose this progressive character and for further productive efficiency, for the more telling mastery of nature, must be replaced, superseded by socialism. Against this powerful tendency, in which forms of socialism offer to complete the capitalist enterprise, even the old, sad, retrospective radicalism seems to bear and to embody a human concern.

Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (Oxford University Press, 1975) p. 37

Supermodernity makes history into spectacle

What is seen by the spectator of modernity is the interweaving of old and new. Supermodernity, though, makes the old (history) into a specific spectacle, as it does with all exoticism and all local particularity.

Marc Augé, Non-places (Verso, 2008) p. 89

SimAmerica

What can be seen in these quick glimpses of emergent SimAmerica is a place where conventional politics is being increasingly emptied of substance and any presumption of factuality or objectivity; where a powerfully conservative hyperreality absorbs the real-and-imagined in its own skein of simulations; where representative democracy is being rechanneled into a politics of strategic representation, dissembling reality into competitive image-bites and electronic populism; where trickle-down economics is practiced without blush or question despite all the empirical evidence of its failures; and where "political correctness" and other brilliantly devised hypersimulations are spun into ever-absorptive and appealing metafrauds.

Edward W. Soja, Postmetropolis (Blackwell Publishing, 2000) p. 347

The urban condition is becoming ubiquitous

What once could be described as mass regional suburbanization has now turned into mass regional urbanization, with virtually everything traditionally associated with "the city" now increasingly evident almost everywhere in the postmetropolis. In the Era of the Postmetropolis, it becomes increasingly difficult to "escape from the city", for the urban condition and urbanism as a way of life are becoming virtually ubiquitous.

Edward W. Soja, Postmetropolis (Blackwell Publishing, 2000) p. 242

Glass is the concrete negation of dwelling

Glass is the concrete negation of dwelling. Not only because architectural form drowns in it, but, because glass, when so used, renders visible those who seek shelter within it. [...] The language of absence here testifies to the absence of dwelling – to the consummate separation between building and dwelling which no heterotopia is capable of remedying. The "great glass windows" are the nullity, the silence of dwelling. They negate dwelling as they reflect the metropolis. And reflection only is permitted to these forms.

Massimo Cacciari, ‘Eupalinos or Architecture’ in Oppositions, 21 (M.I.T. Press, 1980) p. 114

To build is to know oneself as a dweller

To build, for Eupalinos, was to know oneself – since building is dwelling and dwelling is being, being-in-peace, being-at-home. To build is to know oneself as a dweller. And homes are cherished by the dweller as beloved objects.

Massimo Cacciari, ‘Eupalinos or Architecture’ in Oppositions, 21 (M.I.T. Press, 1980) p. 109

Places are fragmentary and inward-turning histories

Places are fragmentary and inward-turning histories, pasts that others are not allowed to read, accumulated times that can be unfolded but like stories held in reserve, remaining in an enigmatic state, symbolizations encysted in the pain or pleasure of the body. “I feel good here”: the well-being under-expressed in the language it appears in like a fleeting glimmer is a spatial practice.

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (University of California Press, 1988) p. 108

Memory is a sort of anti-museum

The dispersion of stories point to the dispersion of the memorable as well. And in fact memory is a sort of anti-museum: it is not localizable. Fragments of it come out in legends. Objects and words also have hollow places in which a past sleeps, as in the everyday acts of walking, eating, going to bed, in which ancient revolutions slumber. A memory is only a Prince Charming who stays just long enough to awaken the Sleeping Beauties of our wordless stories.

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (University of California Press, 1988) p. 108

Stories about places are makeshift things

Stories about places are makeshift things. They are composed with the world's debris. Even if the literary form and the actantial schema of "superstitions" correspond to stable models whose structures and combinations have often been analyzed over the past thirty years, the materials (all the rhetorical details of their "manifestation") are furnished by the leftovers from nominations, taxonomies, heroic or comic predicates, etc., that is, by fragments of scattered semantic places. These heterogeneous and even contrary elements fill the homogeneous form of the story. Things extra and other (details and excesses coming from elsewhere) insert themselves into the accepted framework, the imposed order. One thus has the very relationship between spatial practices and the constructed order. The surface of this order is everywhere punched and torn open by ellipses, drifts, and leaks of meaning: it is a sieve-order.

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (University of California Press, 1988) p. 107

Stories and legends that haunt the urban space

Totalitarianism attacks what it quite correctly calls superstitions: supererogatory semantic overlays that insert themselves "over and above" and "in excess", and annex to a past or poetic realm a part of the land the promoters of technical rationalities and financial profitabilities had reserved for themselves.

Ultimately, since proper names are already "local authorities" or "superstitions," they are replaced by numbers: on the telephone, one no longer dials Opera, but 073. The same is true of the stories and legends that haunt urban space like superfluous or additional inhabitants. They are the object of a witch-hunt, by the very logic of the techno-structure. But their extermination (like the extermination of trees, forests, and hidden places in which such legends live) marks the city a "suspended symbolic order". The habitable city is thereby annulled.

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (University of California Press, 1988) p. 106

To walk is to lack a place

To walk is to lack a place. It is the indefinite process of being absent and in search of a proper. The moving about that the city multiplies and concentrates makes the city itself an immense social experience of lacking a place – an experience that is, to be sure, broken up into countless tiny deportations (displacements and walks), compensated for by the relationships and intersections of these exoduses that intertwine and create an urban fabric, and placed under the sign of what ought to be, ultimately, the place but is only a name, the City. The identity furnished by this place is all the more symbolic (named) because, in spite of the inequality of its citizens' positions and profits, there is only a pullulation of passer-by, a network of residences temporarily appropriated by pedestrian traffic, a shuffling among pretenses of the proper, a universe of rented spaces haunted by a nowhere or by dreamed-of places.

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (University of California Press, 1988) p. 103

Theories of misfortune

The ministers of knowledge have always assumed that the whole universe was threatened by the very changes that affected their ideologies and their positions. They transmute the misfortune of their theories into theories of misfortune.

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (University of California Press, 1988) pp. 95-96

All places are dis-places

All places, including homelands, are dis-places.

Ackbar Abbas 'Migration as spatial fantasy' in After the event: New perspectives on art history (Manchester University Press, 2010) p. 42

At the cost of community

The polis – the Greek city – was the center of Western communal life, based on the now-faulty assumptions of a common purpose, a common consensus, and an unmediated harmony and unity of all human life. Through our postmodern deconstruction of totalizations, we think we have reinstated freedom of choice and enabled the voice of alterity to rise, but we have clearly done so at the cost of community.

M. Christine Boyer, CyberCities (Princeton Architectural Press, 1996) p. 28

The urgency of the moment always missed its mark

No, she thought, one could say nothing to nobody. The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunk back again; then one became like most middle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles between the eyes and a look of perpetual apprehension. For how could one express in words these emotions of the body? express that emptiness there? (She was looking at the drawing-room steps; they looked extraordinarily empty). It was one's body feeling, not one's mind. The physical sensations that went with the bare look of the steps had become suddenly extremely unpleasant. To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have – to want and want – how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (Vintage, 2004) p. 169

Life stand still here

What is the meaning of life? That was all – a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one. This, that, and the other; herself and Charles Tansley and the breaking wave; Mrs. Ramsay bringing them together; Mrs. Ramsay saying "Life stand still here"; Mrs Ramsay making of the moment something permanent (as in another sphere Lily herself tried to make of the moment something permanent) – this was of the nature of a revelation. In the midst of chaos there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was struck into stability. Life stand still here, Mrs. Ramsay said.

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (Vintage, 2004) pp. 153-154

This would remain

Just now (but this cannot last, she thought, dissociating herself from the moment while they were all talking about boots) just now she had reached security; she hovered like a hawk suspended; like a flag floated in an element of joy which filled every nerve of her body fully and sweetly, not noisily, solemnly rather, for it arose, she thought, looking at them all eating there, from husband and children and friends; all of which rising in this profound stillness (she was helping William Bankes to one very small piece more and peered into the depths of the earthenware pot) seemed now for no special reason to stay there like a smoke, like a fume rising upwards, holding them safe together. Nothing need be said; nothing could be said. There it was, all around them. It partook, she felt, carefully helping Mr. Bankes to a specially tender piece, of eternity; as she had already felt about something different once before that afternoon; there is a coherence in things, a stability; something, she meant, is immune from change, and shines out (she glanced at the window with its ripple of reflected lights) in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby; so that again tonight she had the feeling she had had once to-day already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that remains for ever after. This would remain.

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (Vintage, 2004) p. 97

Places are still there

I was talking about time. It's so hard for me to believe in it. Some things go. Pass on. Some things just stay. I used to think it was my rememory. You know. Some things you forget. Other things you never do. But it's not. Places, places are still there. If a house burns down, it's gone, but the place – the picture of it – stays, and not just in my rememory, but out there, in the world. What I remember is a picture floating around out there outside my head. I mean, even if I don't think it, even if I die, the picture of what I did, or knew, or saw is still out there. Right in the place where it happened.

Toni Morrison, Beloved (Vintage, 1997) pp. 35-36

Colour is syncopation

Everything aspires either to the black or to the white. Colour is syncopation.

Samuel Beckett, Eleutheria (Faber and Faber, 1996) p. 113

All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugnance to the men of maxims

The great problem of the shifting relation between passion and duty is clear to no man who is capable of apprehending it: the question, whether the moment has come in which a man has fallen below the possibility of a renunciation that will carry any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a passion against which he had struggled as a trespass, is one for which we have no master key that will fit all cases. The casuists have become a by-word of reproach; but their perverted spirit of minute discrimination was the shadow of a truth to which eyes and hearts are too often fatally sealed: the truth, that moral judgements must remain false and hollow, unless they are checked and enlightened by a perpetual reference to the special circumstances that mark the individual lot.

All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugnance to the men of maxims; because such people early discern that the mysterious complexity of our life is not to be embraced by maxims, and that to lace ourselves up in formulas of that sort is to repress all the divine promptings and inspirations that spring from growing insight and sympathy. And the man of maxims is the popular representative of the minds that are guided in their moral judgement solely by general rules, thinking that these will lead them to justice by a ready-made patent method, without the trouble of exerting patience, discrimination, impartiality, without any care to assure themselves whether they have the insight that comes from a hardly-earned estimate of temptation, or from a life vivid and intense enough to have created a wide fellow-feeling with all that is human.

George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (Penguin Classics, 1985) pp. 627-628

It is mere cowardice to seek safety in negations

It is mere cowardice to seek safety in negations. No character becomes strong in that way. You will be thrown into the world some day, and then every rational satisfaction of your nature that you deny now, will assault you like a savage appetite.

George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (Penguin Classics, 1985) pp. 428-429

That sweet monotony

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it, – if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves in the grass – the same hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows – the same redbreasts that we used to call 'God's birds' because they did no harm to the precious crops – What novelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known and loved because it is known? [...] Our delight in the sunshine on the deep bladed grass today, might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us and transform our perception into love.

George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss (Penguin Classics, 1985) p. 94