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Displacing Hegemonic Discourses: Reflections on Feminist Theory in the 1980’s
Teresa de Lauretis
First I want to situate myself as a white non-American woman, who came of age in a country which, although marked by rigid class differences, had virtually no internal racial differences and was relatively homogeneous culturally. In spite of its location in the First World, Italy is and has been for most of its history a colonial preserve or a vacation spot for other countries of Europe, the Catholic Papacy and, since WWII, for the US as well. Many Italians today refer to themselves as citizens of a Third World country, which they are in many ways, not simply economically. And I would add that part of the appeal of Gramsci for the critique of colonial discourse may come from his consciousness, as a Sardinian (an islander), of colonial economic oppression within the Italian context. [When people here speak of Europe as synonymous with the West, as the homogeneous place of origin of white supremacy and imperialism toward “the rest of the world” (as it is typically put), they ignore the histories of internal colonization, not to mention various forms of class, sexual, and religious oppression, within Europe and within each country of Europe. So that words like Eurocentric (vs. Afrocentric, for example) are highly relative to the US context and to assume otherwise is to put the US at the center of the world no less than Reagan does.]
For me, the first personal awareness of this inferior or colonial status of Italy, and hence of the experiential meaning of the term “ethnic minority” in the US, occurred when I began to live in this country in the mid-60s. This first (geographical) dis-placement served as point of identification for my first experience of cultural difference (difference not as simple distinction, but as hierarchized); but it was only in the next decade, with the women’s movement and the feminist analysis of sexual difference, that I was able to see dis-placement as the point of articulation of a critical understanding of difference.
Secondly, I want to situate my remarks in the context of this meeting and of my work at UCSC. I will be addressing not the critique of colonial discourse in general but its specific relation to, and its specific configuration in, feminist theory as it is done and spoken of, practiced or presumed, in History of Consciousness seminars and Women’s Studies courses on this campus. My current understanding of the relation of feminist theory to the critique of colonial discourse is obviously inscribed in my personal history and dis-placements, but has developed in the context of my work in American universities and the particular cultural, racial, sexual, and generational differences expressed by my students and co-workers. For, as Linda Gordon said, feminist scholarship, “existing in between a social movement and the academy, has mistress and a master, and guess which one pays wages” (21).
The immediate occasion for this reflection on feminist theory is the putting together of a syllabus for the Women’s Studies course I’m teaching this quarter. And as Paula Treichler says, “a good course, like a novel, has a plot … an underlying framework that groups theoretical writings around specific intellectual concerns and questions” (60). The syllabus begins with two epigraphs, setting out the leading theoretical questions or themes of the course: in Linda Gordon’s, the distinction between the feminist and the female, or feminism and women, and the tension between those complex and loaded terms; in Audre Lorde’s, the notion of group and self identity as “the very house of difference”–i.e., the possibility to think the social subject as a site of differences.
If there are contradictions within feminism, it should be understood that there are traditions of female thought, women’s
culture, and female consciousness that are not feminist. Female and feminist consciousness stand in complex relation to
each other: clearly they overlap, for the female is the basis of the feminist, yet the feminist arises also out of a desire to
escape the female…. It seems to me important to claim both. The female is ourselves, our bodies and our socially
constructed experience. It is not the same as feminism, which is not a “natural” excretion of that experience but a
controversial political interpretation and struggle, by no means universal to women. (Gordon 30)Being women together was not enough. We were different. Being gay-girls together was not enough. We were
different. Being Black together was not enough. We were different. Being Black women together was not enough. We
were different. Being Black dykes together was not enough. We were different.Each of us had our own needs and pursuits, and many different alliances. Self-preservation warned some of us that we
could not afford to settle for one easy definition, one narrow individuation of self…. It was a while before we came to
realize that our place was the very house of difference. (Lorde 226)
Implicit in both passages is an important analytical distinction between the notion of difference that is hierarchized, that contains (and hides) a power differential, as in sexual difference, and the notion of difference as pure semiotic or relational difference, as in Saussure’s view of language as a system of differences. The distinction between these two meanings of difference is not an easy one to hold on to because they very often overlap in discourse, as you can see in the Lorde quote, and tend to slide one onto the other, as Gordon says of feminist and female consciousness. Following the epigraphs, the readings are grouped loosely around three texts: a science-fiction novel published in ’75 but written in ’71-72, Joanna Russ’ The Female Man; Audre Lorde’s Zami, a biomythography published in ’82; and an autobiographical essay by
Minnie Bruce Pratt published in ’84. These dates suggest a chronology which, read in relation to the historical development of the US
women’s movement and the shifts in feminist discourse from the early 70s to the mid-80s, provides the syllabus’s plot–but it is a
minimal and fragmentary plot, of the self-reflexive kind one finds in experimental fiction (such as Joanna Russ’), the kind that seeks to
undercut narrative and to expose its own reliance on narrativity.
The objection might arise here that my three texts are works of fiction, not of theory. This of course raises the question of what is theory,
what is feminist theory, what is its relation to practices of language, to discourses, disciplines, canons, institutions, etc.–a question I am
not going to try to answer, at least not now, or not directly. But it’s a useful question because it takes us back to the 70s, to the history of
feminism in this country, to a time when the very term “feminist theory” did not yet exist, and one’s critical work as a feminist had to be
done in the manner of the double shift: on the one hand, the work in the movement, activism, organizing groups and social spaces for
women (including consciousness raising groups and various kinds of collectives, caucuses, etc.); on the other hand, the work in one’s
teaching and writing context–what was then called “feminist criticism” or “the feminist critique” of theory, of the disciplines, of the
canon; for example, the feminist critique of science, the feminist critique of representation, of psychoanalysis, and so on.
But one did not do feminist theory, as such, in those days, not only because male academic discourse did not recognize such a term, but
especially because the women’s movement did not either. In fact, the women’s movement identified theory with maleness, while the
academic component of the movement, women’s studies, identified theory with Frenchness or foreignness, as did the majority of
American intellectuals, women and men. To do theory, in short, and to claim its relevance to feminism, was to do something highly
suspect, which often meant one was not counted as a feminist, unless one also did the second shift and earned one’s credentials in
movement politics or “feminist practice.” To do and to teach theory, then, was seen as an effect of women being colonized by male
discourse, and acquiescing to their colonization–for it was generally believed that one had a choice, that one could choose not to be
colonized or at least not to speak or write as a colonized subject. And the relevance of “theory” (semiotics, psychoanalysis, marxism) was
precisely that it showed that one did not really have that choice.
The vicissitudes of feminism since then, the end of the women’s movement as such, the tendency to institutionalization or mainstreaming
of feminist studies, and the critique of feminism around issues of racism, homophobia, and moralism (not to say bigotry) have proven
that one who is “colonized” does not have the choice simply not to be so; one who lives in a sexist culture does not simply choose not to
be sexist, but has to work through her own internalized sexism. And so, perhaps, the relevance of theory to feminism–or better the
relevance of theories of culture such as marxism, >semiotics, or psychoanalytic theory–has become more and more apparent.
It may not be too much of an exaggeration to suggest that feminist theory became possible as such (that is, became identifiable as
feminist theory rather than a feminist critique of some other theory or object-theory) in a post-colonial mode. By this I mean, it became
possible with the understanding of the interrelatedness of discourses and social practices, and of the multiplicity of positionalities
concurrently available in the social field–as in Foucault’s notion of the social as a field of forces, a tangle of distinct and variable
relations of power and points of resistance. With regard to feminism, this understanding of a diversified field of power relations
occurred or was brought home, as it were, when the writings of women of color, Jewish women, and lesbians constituted themselves as a
feminist critique of feminism, and an intervention in a feminist discourse that was anchored to the single axis of gender as sexual (or
rather, heterosexual) difference, however minutely articulated in its many instances, from everyday language use to mass media
representations and to all major institutional apparati.
On the notion of sexual difference as an opposition of female to male, Woman to Man, or women to men, an opposition along the axis
of gender, earlier feminism built not only its understanding of power relations as a one-way relation of oppressor to victim, colonizer to
colonized subject (one spoke of women as a colonized population, of the female body as mapped by phallic desire or territorialized by
male discourse), but also its strategies of resistance and struggle, which were primarily in two directions. One was toward equal status:
accepting the definition of woman as biologically, emotionally and socially complementary to man but demanding the same
rights–without considering how “the rights of man” vary with the social relations of race and class that determine the existence of actual
men. That direction, then, entailed remaining within the representational economy and “the law of the same,” as Luce Irigaray put it in
Speculum, or, in the words of Abdul JanMohamed at this meeting last year, seeking assimilation within the hegemonic colonial discourse
(Irigaray 33; JanMohamed). Alternatively, there was the direction of radical separatism: taking a polarized, oppositional stance to “men”
and working to construct a counter-hegemonic discourse, as in the notions of women’s language” or “women’s culture.”
These distinct and often intercut strategies were and continue to be important in particular and local contexts even if they were predictable
and in a sense mandated by a colonial situation (internal colonization). However, it should be pointed out that very often the notion of
gender oppression carried with it a sense of moral outrage which, having no other conceptual basis than its own ethical rage, made many
feminists adopt the very terms of the enemy’s definition of power–terms which were the only ones readily available at the institutional
level–and seek a territory for feminism to occupy, a wilderness to colonize. [1] How this radical feminist “meta-ethics” colluded with the
ideology of the same, is remarked on by Lorde in her “Open Letter to Mary Daly”:
I ask that you be aware of how this serves the destructive forces of racism and separation between women–the
assumption that the herstory and myth of white women is the legitimate and sole herstory and myth of all women to call
upon for power and background, and that nonwhite women and our herstories are noteworthy only as decorations, or
examples of female victimization. I ask that you be aware of the effect that this dismissal has upon the community of
Black women and other women of Color, and how it devalues your own words…. When patriarchy dismisses us, it
encourages our murderers. When radical lesbian feminist theory dismisses us, it encourages its own demise. (Sister
Outsider 69)
The intervention or speaking out within and against feminism by women of color on racism, Jewish women on anti-Semitism, and
lesbians on heterosexism forced us to confront, both emotionally and conceptually, the presence of power relations that just could not be
analyzed, altered, or even addressed by the concepts of gender and sexual difference. It showed how not only “sexual difference,” with
its overt or latent homophobic stake in heterosexuality, but also homosexual difference (i.e., ontological or political lesbianisms as the
single requirement for membership in a utopian women’s collectivity) were inadequate to account for social and power relations that were
and are being (re)produced between and within women; relations causing oppression between women, and relations enforcing the
repression of differences within women and within oneself.
Now, those charges of racism, anti-semitism, heterosexism, or social privilege brought to feminism have been in the main accepted as
well-founded (though one may distinguish omission from commission, repression from hypocrisy, and real pain from mere political
correctness). But perhaps they have been accepted too readily; that is to say, the claims of other stakes, other axes along which
oppression, identity and subjectivity are organized–such as race or color and ethnic or sexual identification–have been accepted and
given, as it were, equal status with the axis of gender in feminist theory. These various axes are seen as parallel or coequal, though with
varying priorities for particular women: for some women the racial may have priority over the sexual in defining subjectivity and
grounding identity; for other women the sexual may have priority; for others still it may be the ethnic/cultural that has priority at a given
moment. Hence the phrase one hears so often in Women’s Studies and feminist theory classes: “gender, race and class” or its Northern
California variant “gender, race and class and sexualities.”
What this list of seemingly co-equal terms, or the notion of layers of oppression along parallel axes of difference, does not grasp is how
one may affect the others; e.g., how gender affects racial oppression in its subjective effects. In her essay “Toward a Black Feminist
Criticism,” written in 1977 and many times reprinted, Barbara Smith writes that “Black male critics … are, of course, hampered by an
inability to comprehend Black women’s experience in sexual as well as racial terms.” (162).
Not only in sexual terms, which to a feminist is easily understood, but also in racial terms: Black men, that is, for Smith, do not
comprehend Black women’s experience in racial terms, do not comprehend Black women’s experience of racism. This is not so easy a
concept for a white woman to understand, since, from a position that is presumed to be racially unmarked, one might assume simply that
all Black people experience the same racism and Black women also experience sexism in addition. But what Smith is saying–and it
seems plain enough, yet how elusive it has proved to be–is that Black women experience racism not as “Blacks” but as Black women.
The layers of oppression are not parallel but intersecting and mutually determining. This, on the one hand, confirms that gender is a
fundamental ground of subjectivity–not coincidentally Smith speaks as a Black feminist, a Black woman, and a Black lesbian. But, on
the other hand, it shows that the experience of racism changes the experience of gender, so that a white woman would be no closer than a
Black man to comprehending a Black woman’s experience in sexual terms, her experience of sexism, her experience of gender, and
hence her subjectivity.
With regard to theory, then, the listing of gender, race, class and sexualities as co-equal terms does not make evident, and in fact elides,
the crucial shift in feminist consciousness that occurs with the intervention of women of color and lesbians in the contested terrain of
feminist theory, an epistemological shift affecting the whole of feminism, theory and practice, and their relationship. While the axis of
gender, historically the first epistemological ground of feminism, defines a form of consciousness based on the opposition of woman to
man, and the oppression of women by men, and hence produces a relatively stable or unified feminist subject defined by its
consciousness of gender oppression as a one-way power relation (where women are the victims and thus the revolutionary class subject,
so to speak), the other axes, by their very interrelatedness and co-implication in gender and in one another, define another form of
consciousness, what I will call a consciousness of complicity, in particular, of ideological complicity.
So that the feminist subject, which was initially defined purely by its status as colonized subject or victim of oppression, becomes
redefined as much less pure–and not unified or simply divided between positions of masculinity and femininity, but multiply
organized across positionalities along several axes and across mutually contradictory discourses and practices. Let me restate this idea,
which is central to my argument for feminist theory. The feminist subject, or the subject (for feminism), can now be defined as multiple
and heterogeneous, or multiply organized, rather than fragmented or “dispersed,” as JanMohamed suggested of the post-colonial subject,
using the terms of contemporary anti-humanist philosophy, and distinguishing between an “ontological dispersal” of the European
subject (non-gendered) and a “political dispersal” of the Third World subject, also non-gendered. In feminism, as I see it, ontology and
politics precisely go together.
In sum, because of the shift brought about by the intervention of women of color and lesbians in feminist theory, the feminist subject can
now be redefined as much less pure, as indeed ideologically complicitous with “the oppressor” whose position it may occupy in certain
sociosexual relations (though not others), on one or another axis. For instance, even as she analyzes the position of Black women at the
bottom of a triple hierarchy of different but interlocking oppressions by white men, white women, and Black men, Barbara Smith states:
I feel so very American when I realize that simply by being
Black I have not escaped the typical American ways of perceiving people who are different from myself. For example, I
catch myself falling back on stereotypes in order to feel less awkward in a cultural context unfamiliar to me or I make
chauvinistic assumptions about the “universal” accessibility of the English language. I also have been stymied at times
by other Third World women’s verifiably negative attitudes toward Black people, the fact that some of them have also
bought the culture’s values about race. We all have work to do and changing is a true challenge. In my own favor, I
hope, is that I have a thorough knowledge of what it feels like to be dismissed because of one’s physical being,
language, and culture. (Home Girls xliii)
This is very far from the position of other Third World women, indeed, like Chikwenye Ogunyemi, for whom Black “womanism”
(in contradistinction to white feminism) is a place of non-contamination, of moral and ideological purity very similar, ironically, to the
place of some white feminist ethics (of maternity or of non-violence, for example). [2] The similarity rests, as I see it, in the definition of
“womanist” (Ogunyemi’s definition, not Alice Walker’s, who uses the term with quite another emphasis in In Search of Our Mothers’
Gardens) by a single axis, which in this case is the axis of race or color, instead of gender.
And I see this tendency, in the two cases, as bearing out JanMohamed’s point that when the colony accepts the colonizer’s mode of
production (maternity is an excellent example) in exchange for a certain freedom of cultural practices and even of critical discourse, a
freedom ritually recognized by “independence” (by colonialist standards), then sooner or later dominant colonialism will re-surface. This
is clearly the case of the white feminist ethics of maternity (by heterosexual standards) represented by Julia Kristeva and Jean Bethke
Elshtain. At the opposite end, the insistence on a unified subject of counter-hegemonic discourse (whether Third World womanism or
white radical feminism) would simply exchange the roles of subject and Other. But only at the theoretical level, for both colonial and
post-colonial historical realities militate against that simple reversal.
There is, here, also, the problem of anger, evident in Ogunyemi or in a recent debate in the British Feminist Review (nos. 22 and 23,
1986): Black women’s anger at white women, and feminists in particular. Anger is a byproduct of oppression, and so inevitable and
necessary, as any feminist must know. The signs of oppression are inscribed in one’s very body, like the words of her parents’ revenge
tattooed into the back of the woman warrior in Maxine Hong Kingston’s powerful image. But it is only in the folk legend, in her
mother’s talking-story, and not in her historical existence, that the woman warrior, passing for a man, can kill the baron, avenge her
village, and return to it with honor. In her historical Chinese-American existence, the woman warrior knows the racist enemy. But she
also knows that the words of her own people’s language name her a slave, a bad girl, and disallow her freedom and the very fantasy by
which she insists in constituting herself, instead, as a warrior and as their avenger. Therefore it is significant that in her fantasy, after
killing the baron, she releases his foot-bound ladies into freedom (and they go on to become amazons, who shelter outcast women and
kill boys and men.) Kingston’s, the woman warrior’s, is a political anger, in other words, not merely an ethical one. It is directed at its multiple causes,
precisely analyzed, rather than to a single, most immediate and finally ineffectual target, whether that target be white woman without
distinction or even other women of color who, in the words of Gloria Anzaldœa, “have strung degrees, credentials and published books
around our necks like pearls [and who thus] are in danger of contributing to the invisibility of our sister writers,” like Malinche, “la
Vendida, the sell-out” (Moraga and Anzaldœa 167)
I suggested before that feminist theory became possible within a post-colonial mode. Let me restate that in this way: if the history of feminism begins “when feminist texts written by women and a feminist movement conscious of itself came together,” as Elaine Marks and Isabelle de Courtivron suggest in the introduction to New French Feminisms, a feminist theory begins when the feminist critique of ideologies becomes conscious of itself and turns to question its own body of writing and critical interpretations, its basic assumptions and terms, and the practices which they enable and from which they emerge (3). This is not merely an expansion or a reconfiguration of boundaries, but a qualitative shift in political and historical consciousness. The shift implies, in my opinion, a displacement and a
self-dis-placement: leaving or giving up a place that is safe, that is “home” (physically, emotionally, linguistically, and epistemologically)
for another place that is unknown and risky, that is not only emotionally but conceptually other, a place of discourse from which
speaking and thinking are at best tentative, uncertain, unguaranteed. But the leaving is not a choice: one could not live there, in the first
place. Both dis-placements, the personal and the conceptual, are painful–either the result of pain, risk and a real stake. This is “theory in
the flesh,” as Cherríe Moraga so aptly put it (23). Which may be why it is primarily feminists of color and lesbian feminists who have
taken the risk. I will mention two examples, from my syllabus, of conceptual and personal dis-placement, or a dis-placement of self in
relation to feminism which is concurrently a dis-placement of one’s point of conceptual articulation and understanding.
The first is Monique Wittig’s 1981 essay “One Is Not Born A Woman,” where something of the displacement is immediately apparent
in the title, a phrase from Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex rewritten by the writer of The Lesbian Body (the shift from “the
second sex” to “the lesbian body” is quite a displacement, and it is doubled by Wittig’s geographical and cultural dis-placement from
France to the US, where she lives now). Speaking as a “materialist feminist,” Wittig begins by posing two highly unorthodox terms:
“lesbian society,” by which she means more or less what we mean by lesbian community, and the notion of “women as a class.” With
the latter she argues that women are not “a natural group” with common, biological features and whose oppression would be a
consequence of this “nature,” but rather women are a constructed, political and economic category, the product of a social relation of
exploitation; and hence a social category with class interests and (potentially at least) a class consciousness. Its struggle as a class is to
fight for the disappearance of all classes, and thus of itself–to fight for the disappearance of “women.”
What female people would be in such a classless society is suggested by the very existence, however marginal, of lesbian communities.
A lesbian, Wittig claims,
is not a woman, either economically, or politically, or ideologically. For what makes a woman is a specific social relation
to a man, a relation that we have previously called servitude, a relation which implies personal and physical obligation as
well as economic obligation (‘forced residence,’ domestic corvee, conjugal duties, unlimited production of children, etc.),
a relation which lesbians escape by refusing to become or to stay heterosexual. (53)
This is of course very problematic in the terms of marxist theory itself. But, however problematic, the use she makes of marxism is very
interesting. She uses marxist concepts against the women’s movement (insofar as it represents liberal feminism), and argues against
accepting the terms of gender or sexual difference, which define women by their biological potential, even if we retain only the positive
features of “woman,” even if we retain “the best features which oppression has granted us,” as Wittig puts it. For to accept those terms
makes it impossible to radically question the social relations of gender. Thus it is impossible for women to constitute ourselves as
subjects within the categories of sex-gender (male/female or man/woman).
Secondly, however, she uses the feminist (and liberal?) notion of an individual self or subjectivity against marxism, which does not allow
individual subjectivity to the members of the oppressed classes, she says. In short, she argues for both a class consciousness and an
individual subjectivity at once. With the consciousness of oppression we become subjects in the sense of cognitive subjects, through an
operation of abstraction. Consciousness of oppression is not only a reaction to (fight against) oppression. It is also the whole conceptual
reevaluation of the social world, its whole reorganization with new concepts, from the point of view of oppression. It is what I would call
the science of oppression created by the oppressed. This operation of understanding reality has to be undertaken by every one of us: call
it a subjective, cognitive practice (Wittig 52). And she concludes: “It is we who historically must undertake the task of defining the
individual subject in materialist terms. This certainly seems to be an impossibility since materialism and subjectivity have always been
mutually exclusive. Nevertheless…” she will reiterate, it is necessary to claim both subjectivity and class consciousness.
This “we” (which I take to mean not simply lesbians but those who take up positions in the theoretical/political space of a materialist
lesbian feminism) is the dis-placed point of articulation from which to rewrite those two, all-inclusive and mutually exclusive systems,
marxism and feminism, rejoining the critique of the “sex-gender system” and the “political economy of sex, ” as Gayle Rubin first called
it.
My second example of conceptual and personal dis-placement is Minnie Bruce Pratt’s politico-biographical essay “Identity: Skin Blood
Heart” as interpreted or rewritten by Biddy Martin and Chandra Mohanty in their essay “Feminist Politics: What’s Home Got to Do
with It?” These two essays are entirely about dis-placement, about leaving the comfort of “home” after the realization that “home was an
illusion of coherence and safety based on exclusion and repression and secured by terror,” and thus taking the risk and struggling to
rebuild identity and subjectivity, as well as community, as “the very house of differences” (in Lorde’s words quoted above). The essay by
Martin and Mohanty bears out my point earlier that the subject of feminism is multiply organized, unstable, and historically
discontinuous; it is, they write, a subject produced “in relation to shifting interpersonal and political contexts,” and also therefore “the
product of struggle” (210).
NOTES
Much of the thinking that went into this paper took place in the context of my teaching feminist theory, both in graduate seminars in
History of Consciousness and in undergraduate courses in Women’s Studies, at the University of California, Santa Cruz over the past
three years. I am indebted to my students, especially Lorna Dee Cervantes, Johanna Kornichuk Garcia, Eric Hickson, Osa Hidalgo de la
Riva, Allynnore Jen, Nathalie Magnan, Chela Sandoval, Jenny Terry, Rosa Villafane-Sisolak, and Patty White for the conversations and
discussions from which the paper took shape; and Lata Mani, for the inspiring example she gave me as my Teaching Assistant. A longer
and more developed version of this paper is forthcoming, with the title “Eccentric Subjects: Feminist Theory and Historical
Consciousness,” in a special issue of Poetics Today on “Theory and Methods in the History of Consciousness,” edited by Hayden
White.
1. I’m thinking here of Elaine Showalter, “Feminist Criticism in the Wilderness,” in The New Feminist Criticism: Essays on Women,
Literature, and Theory (New York: Pantheon Books, 1985); or Mary Daly, Gyn/Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism (Boston:
Beacon Press, 1978); or Susan Griffin, Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her (New
York: Harper and Row, 1978).
2. Chikwenye Okonjo Ogunyemi, “Womanism: The Dynamics of the Contemporary Black Female Novel in English,” Signs 11.1
(1985): 63-80. On the feminist ethics of maternity, especially Julia Kristeva’s “Stabat Mater,” in The Female Body in Western Culture:
Contemporary Perspectives, ed. Susan Rubin Suleiman (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986) 99-118, I have written at
some length in my “The Female Body and Heterosexual Presumption,” Semiotica 67.3-4 (1987): 259-279.
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