Is Process Work Art? A Rumination

Process Work, besides its function as psychotherapy, has a very public aspect. As a way of illustrating its basic principles, it is commonly demonstrated in large groups. Such publicly enacted Process Work has a therapeutic effect which goes beyond the subject of the work. Often, the entire group is drawn in, as into a sacred space where something of great import occurs. Many participants have transformative experiences, sharing the feeling that something highly significant has happened. At such times, you may hear people say, "That was a work of art."

Over the past twenty years I have been observer, subject and therapist in perhaps thousands of such group demonstrations of Process Work. I have often wrestled with the questions, "What are we doing? Is it therapy? Is it science? Is it art?" I have come up with a lot of ideas, but no concrete answers. In the past five years, while grappling with similar questions regarding the existence or "reality" of many constructs used in process theory, I have come upon some philosophical theories relating language, concepts and experiences which suggest to me that the question "Is Process Work art?" can never be definitively answered.

Instead, my readings in philosophy, particularly the philosophy of language, have convinced me that far richer questions would be, "In what ways is Process Work art? In what ways is it not art?" These questions are useful because they help us sharpen our awareness of exactly what we consider art to be.

A full exploration of these questions, which would require that I define just what I mean by "art," and just what I mean by "Process Work," is clearly beyond the scope of this article. Alternatively, I could explore my intuitions to become more aware of how I think about Process Work and art, alone and in relation to one another.

In this article, I present some of my own rather intuitive ideas about Process Work and art, and illustrate them with an example of a piece of Process Work in which poetry played a prominent part.

Some intuitions about art and Process Work

The process worker has no goal other than to follow nature. The client with whom she works is at the center of the process. A therapist who consistently sees her client only as a medium upon which to impress her own vision would be stretching my notion of Process Work. Besides this main dissimilarity, I also see many similarities between Process Work and art.

Art can never be fully intentional. The artist visits nature, releasing forces which were there long before she arrived. Michelangelo claimed he was a servant to his stone, simply releasing the form that dwelt within it. Long years of apprenticeship and practice make the artist a worthy vessel to receive inspiration, the muse or the spirit. Without the blessing of nature, there is no art, only mechanical technique.

To do Process Work without the cooperation of nature is to be a mere technician. Like a midwife, the process worker can only help into the world that which was already gestating in the client. The highest goal of Process Work resembles Michelangelo's: to find and release the form in the stone. The skill and sensitivity required of the Process Worker is like that of the artist who follows rather than overpowers nature.

Then there is the matter of universality. One view holds time to be the arbiter of what is and isn't art. The quality which distinguishes art from craft, and great art from transitory entertainment, is the quality of universality. Does it outlast the fashion of the times? Does it endure? Does it reach beyond the boundaries of the culture from which it sprang to touch the hearts and minds of people with radically different outlooks on life?

Qualities of Process Work which seem universal prompt us to compare it with art. When Process Work is a private matter, it is like a bit of poetry spoken between lovers. When Process Work happens in the midst of a group, and apparently private concerns touch all of us, we feel something artistic in its doing. Great Process Work has the capacity to connect us with fundamental issues in our lives: matters of life and death, love, conflict, compassion and humility. It is art because it affects us in much the same way that art affects us.

There are ways, then, in which Process Work is and isn't art. But this question is only the beginning of a more interesting line of inquiry into the ways art enters into and mingles with the practice of Process Work.

Process Work and the poetry of experience

In some ways art is indispensable in the practice of Process Work. I would like to support this claim by showing that there are strong parallels between the work of the poet and the process worker. Specifically, I hope to show that the kind of creativity which goes toward the production of a poem is similar in both intent and execution to the kind of creativity which is a hallmark of Process Work. The ideas I present here were stimulated by my reading of More than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor, by George Lakoff and Mark Turner.

A personal view of Process Work

In my view, one of the main goals of Process Work is to help individuals, groups and large collectives embrace disavowed aspects of their experience. I previously presented a partial theory of the disavowal of experience (see the Journal of Process Oriented Psychology, Vol. 5 No. 2). Put briefly, people and groups tend to disavow, through any of a number of processes, contradictory aspects of their experience which, if embraced, would lead to serious existential conflicts.

What kind of conflicts do I mean? Some examples include: violation of identity, incompatibility of contrasting aspects of experience, and fear of the unknown.

1. Violation of identity. People readily disavow experiences which lead them to question their established identities. A person who sees herself as peace-loving will tend to project, repress or otherwise disavow any evidence of aggressive thoughts, feelings or behavior she finds in herself. A group which considers itself peace-loving may marginalize or dismiss members whose styles or ideas they see as excessively aggressive. The same group will tend to repress awareness of its own aggressive action in marginalizing the "offenders."
2. Incompatibility of contrasting aspects of experience. People often find themselves in experiential double-binds, as when:

• They find that they simultaneously love and hate someone close to them.
• Those who have been abused may wish to defend themselves against injury by a parent or a partner, but find that to do so would open them to even greater injury by that person.
• Their opinions differ from those prescribed by a tyrannical government, but to express or even think them could mean imprisonment or death. This almost always results in repression of the dangerous or "rebellious" thought or behavior.

On a collective level, this incompatibility of experience expresses itself in open or covert warfare between holders of conflicting viewpoints.

3) Fear of the unknown. Large, abstract and partly
incomprehensible issues, like life, death and suffer
ing, are generally disavowed in everyday experi
ence. They may suddenly be forced to the
forefront of our awareness through personal loss,
illness or spiritual crisis. If we continue to disavow
them, various trance-like and extreme states of
consciousness may result, or they may be
preserved in the form of physical symptoms or
other somatic experience. (SeeMindell 1985,1988.)

Approaches to experiential conflicts

Experiential conflicts may grow quite extreme without crossing the threshold of our awareness. However, when ordinary processes of repression fail, we are brought face to face with irreconcilable aspects of our experience. We may then feel the need to relieve the unbearable conflict in which we find ourselves.

Joe Goodbread

I have been able to identify three main ways that people resolve experiential conflicts, although there are countless others.

1. Change: Experiential conflicts may be resolved by changing the disturbing aspects of one's experience. Many of us try to resolve inner conflict through psychotherapy or counseling in an attempt to change our behavior, attitudes, beliefs and thoughts. On a social level, institutions such as prisons, psychiatric hospitals and schools are meant to fulfill this function.
2. Search for meaning: Rather than change our experiences, we may try to understand them. Religious and spiritual practices are the oldest attempts to deal with conflicting aspects of experience by finding a framework of meaning under which the various terms of the conflict make sense. How, for instance, shall we deal with the death of a child or beloved partner in a world which we otherwise find kind and supportive? How can we accommodate the spectrum of feelings: grief, fury, perhaps even relief? How to deal with the unexpected ebbing of our own life energy? Religion addresses itself to such questions, typically positing a myth which makes sense of the contradictions. Some analytically oriented • forms of psychotherapy also seek to resolve experiential conflicts by discovering their meaning. A young man who suffers from a chronic inability to hold a job may find a great deal of comfort in knowing that he is not bad or mad, but is "working out a complex" with his male superiors.

Although understanding may resolve experiential conflicts, it can have the disadvantage of taking us out of the experiences themselves. This can itself be a form of repression through avoidance. Understanding the origin of a severe pain is a different matter from processing the experience itself, which is the focus of the third approach to experiential conflict.

3) Search for experiential coherence: We often
find that what we think about disturbing experi
ence may be worse than the experience itself.
When we find the courage to explore the experi
ences which we most fear, we often find them
quite different from our initial preconceptions.
Experiential psychotherapies of all sorts have
developed ways of helping clients "over the edge"
of their preconceptions and into "the experience
itself." Body-oriented therapies, Gestalt Therapy, and
Process Work are but a few examples among many.

Process Work approaches experiential conflicts with the insight that even strongly disavowed experience is neither static nor totally unconscious. It can be "unfolded" by noticing and encouraging its spontaneous extension into the person's imagination, movement, body feeling and relationships. Such unfolding encourages the client to permit seemingly incompatible aspects of her experience to co-exist, without necessarily building a conceptual bridge between them. Apparently contradictory experiences may then become coherent, in the sense that they stick together in larger experiential patterns which are free of the initial conflict.

Psychotherapy is a relatively modern instrument in the search for coherence among contradictory aspects of experience. A similar function is served by those works of art which touch us most deeply, and those which have the greatest universal appeal. A central function of artistic expression is to reveal new and helpful ways of comprehending those experiences which are hardest for us to grasp: life, death, suffering and the spirit. These three modes are not mutually exclusive: creatively applied, they can interact to yield new and efficient ways of helping us embrace previously disavowed experience.

Art, Process Work and unfolding experiential conflict

The search for experiential coherence highlights a very interesting relationship between Process Work and art. Although any form of art may be a vehicle for exploring novel ways of dealing with experiential conflict, I wish to focus on a particular event in which poetry and Process Work merged in a complex and interesting way to help someone come to terms with a seemingly intractable experiential conflict.

Poetry and Process Work

At an introductory seminar on Process Work, which took place in Europe, a man in his late 40s asked for help with a difficult life situation. He was depressed, felt he was losing most of his relationships, and was having a crisis around his job. In short, he felt miserable and isolated. The most troubling aspect of his experience was his feeling that people ignored him even when he was in their presence, as if he were invisible to them. He felt that he was depressed because in spite of his vast need for human relationship, he seemed to be growing more and more isolated.

As he described his difficulties, I kept asking him leading questions, encouraging him to unfold the nature of his experience of isolation. Suddenly, his eyes flashed, he smiled and giggled, and said "I feel like I'm on Mars!" His face then became morose again, and he continued his sad story.

I mentioned that a central objective of Process Work is to encourage clients to embrace the totality of their experiential world, especially disavowed aspects. Disavowed experience typically announces itself through the sort of behavior this man, let's call him Fred, displayed when he said "I feel like I'm on Mars!" The fleeting, seemingly joyful expression which came over his face contrasted strongly with his rather depressed appearance as he talked about his troubles. His remark about Mars was a mystery; it didn't fit with the bulk of the information he provided. But the apparent joy which accompanied it suggested that it might be useful for him to be invited on a trip to Mars.

I suggested to him that he might care to explore his passing remark about going to Mars. He looked at me quizzically, and said that he often had the fantasy of isolating himself completely and telling the whole world to get lost. I asked him how he might do that now, in the moment. He said that he would simply sit in a chair facing the wall and turn his back on the whole group. He did this, and sat motionless and silent for several minutes.

I anticipated that the group would eventually grow bored and restless, but to my astonishment, they sat in rapt silence, carefully watching Fred. After three or four minutes, Fred turned around, looked at the group, and began to apologize for keeping them tied up for so long. Several members of the group protested, saying that they were not at all bored, and encouraged him to go back to his Martian isolation. He began to talk again, trying to explain how he was feeling, but I encouraged him to go back to what he was doing.

After another few minutes, Fred began to speak to us. He continued to face the wall this time, and spoke in a ringing, commanding voice. He said that he was suddenly reminded of a fragment of a poem, the epitaph of W. B. Yeats. He recited:

Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

From his position of isolation, he began to speak as though he truly cast a cold eye on life

and death, in the manner of one who has gained a measure of detachment from his worldly cares. From that position he was able to speak to himself, the earthly Fred, and tell him that it was not important whether people liked him or not. It was vital that he find and follow what was important to him. All else was irrelevant.

Fred was visibly moved by his own speech. Although he felt that the advice was very relevant, he felt that the experience of sitting with his back to the group and immersing himself in his own feelings and thoughts was equally important. He said that all his life he had been terribly dependent on what others had thought of him, and suffered from not being able to keep his own counsel.

Many members of the group were deeply affected by Fred's experience; quite a few had tears in their eyes. I suggested that Fred and the others take a few minutes to stay with whatever they were feeling.

When Fred and the others were ready, we discussed what he and they had experienced during the work. Fred said that he had rejoiced in his new freedom to establish the rules of interaction. He found himself enjoying his own company, regardless of what others thought he should be doing. He felt a spirit of rebellion; from his lofty Martian state he could assert his will with the troublesome people in his life without worrying about the consequences.

When Fred recited the Yeats poem, something shifted both in his mood and in the emotional atmosphere of the group. Fred feared he had bored them with his personal problems; to the contrary, many participants said that his work had moved them deeply, putting them in touch with their own need for detachment and independence of outside judgments. All agreed that his reciting the poem brought something powerful and universal into the room.

That was the work. Let us now look at the various ways Process Work and art mingled as we unfolded the drama of Fred's life.

The poetic and the therapeutic

I see at least two specific ways in which psychotherapy and poetic art mingle in the work with Fred. The obvious one is Fred's recital of the Yeats poem. The less obvious instance might be called spontaneous "cooperative poetry" which occurs between Fred and the therapist. It revolves around Fred's use of poetic metaphor to describe

Joe Goodbread

his isolation, and the therapist encouraging Fred to select and expand upon the experience lying behind that metaphor.

Poetic metaphor and underlying experience

Lakoff and Turner suggest metaphor is poetic to the degree that it creates new connections between seemingly unrelated or contradictory aspects of our experience (1989: 67-69).

When Fred speaks of his sense of isolation as "being on Mars," he uses a poetic metaphor for a state of consciousness in which one is "absent" from one's desired or usual state. It is poetic because its imagery contrasts with his more mundane description of his depression. It is also poetic because it encapsulates the complexity and mystery of Fred's experience without reducing it to literal descriptions.

If we do not recognize the poetic quality of this expression, we may simply think he is choosing a quirky or extravagant way of saying he feels lost or lonely. We would then run the risk of reducing his experience to a triviality, cutting off precisely that spontaneous extension of his experience which is the goal of our work.

We are likely to overlook the poetic quality of his metaphor because it is not incorporated into a crafted piece of poetry; it takes a practiced eye to spot an uncut diamond in a handful of pebbles. Part of the process worker's craft involves noticing unusually rich or contrasting metaphor while looking for a handle on disavowed aspects of the client's world of experience.

Poetic language provides such a handle by encapsulating rich patterns of experience within its imagery. Poetic language is often accompanied by other expressions of a person's underlying patterns of experience: remember that Fred smiled and giggled as he spoke of going to Mars. Unlike his typical feelings of depressed isolation, his Martian experience seemed to make him happy!

Unfolding language into experience

Because poetic language encapsulates experiential patterns, it provides an excellent starting point for unfolding those patterns into immediate experience. When I asked Fred to go to Mars, I invited him to let this experience unfold and extend itself, to permeate his immediate awareness. He chose to do this by turning his back on the group to better immerse himself in his own thoughts and feelings. It was his way of unfolding the image of "going to

Mars" by letting it extend into movement, relationship and feeling.

Cooperative poetry

Conventional wisdom requires a work of art to be the act of a single person. The artist must translate her initial inspiration into concrete imagery by skillfully manipulating her chosen medium. If we require artistry to have all of these elements, it would be idiosyncratic to call Fred's lone image of "going to Mars" poetry.

If, on the other hand, we wish to use the poetic quality of language to get a handle on underlying patterns of experience, we should be liberal in our evaluation of the poetic. We might conceivably evaluate a person's language on a "scale of poetic-ity" to determine which expressions would most readily unfold into their underlying, possibly disavowed patterns of experience.

Since it is usual for the poet to perform this evaluation, assembling poetic language into finished poems, neither the client who produces poetic language, nor the therapist who evaluates it, could be considered "the poet." Instead, the generative and evaluative functions are shared by process worker and client. Process Work might therefore be viewed as "cooperative poetry," whose goal is to unfold the client's experience, rather than to produce finished pieces of poetry. As we shall see in the next section, the result is no less poetic than intentionally created poetry. The poetic aspect of Process Work transforms concrete, personal experience into a universally accessible pattern which, in turn, can elicit meaningful personal experience in others.

Poetry as an ally in Process Work

Poetry played a second, more explicit role in the work with Fred, when he, from the standpoint of his Martian isolation, recited the Yeats poem:

Cast a cold eye

On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by! This was the second instance where poetry, this time an "off the shelf poem, gave him a powerful image for unfolding yet another piece of his world of experience.

Considering three questions may help us understand why the Yeats poem had such an effect on Fred and the rest of the seminar participants: 1) What experiential patterns lie behind the Yeats poem?

1. How did these patterns help Fred in unfolding his experience of his situation?
2. Why did the introduction of the poem take these experiences beyond Fred's private world and create a deep feeling resonance in the other participants?

First, let us look at the experiential patterns in this poem.

Horseman, pass by!

Although there are many avenues to approach a poem, I will focus the following exploration of the poem on the kind of metaphorical analysis presented by George Lakoff and Mark Turner in More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. I have chosen their approach because it most closely matches our notion of poetry as encapsulated universal experience. Lakoff and Turner present a rather complete analysis of these three lines from Yeats' much longer poem, "Under Ben Bulben" (1989: 189-91). Rather than cite details of their analysis, I will present my understanding of it. The metaphorical structure of the Yeats poem means something like the following.

There is a conventional metaphor which equates "cold" with dispassionate. A cold eye is a dispassionate eye. Another conventional metaphor compares seeing with understanding. To cast a cold eye on something is to understand it in a dispassionate way.

Another conventional metaphor connects the concept of life with the concept of a journey. This is possible because we see journeys and lives as having similar structures. A journey has a beginning, a destination and a middle part. We experience our lives as beginning at birth, moving toward a final destination of death, and involving various activities along the way. Journeys are a useful metaphor for lives, because they give us concrete events on which to base our understanding of the more abstract concepts of birth, death and human activity.

Thus, we can understand the Yeats poem something like this: the poet is speaking from the grave. He has reached the end of his journey and is now at rest, with a lifetime of experience behind him. A horseman rides by and reads the epitaph, the dead poet's message to him. The message exhorts him to "Cast a cold eye/on life, on death." From the standpoint of the end of his life journey, the poet can advise the rider to have a more dispassionate understanding of life and death.

Who is the horseman? Again, applying the "life is a journey" metaphor, we may understand the horseman as someone full of vigor in the midst of life. Why does he need the poet's advice from the grave? Someone in the midst of life might tend to cast a hot, or emotional, eye on life and death. This might mean seeing the events of life and the threat of death to be of overriding importance. It might lead one to cling desperately to life and to fear death inordinately. An overly emotional attachment to life and fear of death might divert one from one's path; the horseman might stop, pondering his life and death too emotionally, and interrupt his journey prematurely. We all know people who, for fear of death or of not living life fully, experience a kind of deadness or chronic depression. Yeats is therefore exhorting the horseman not to dwell too long on life and death, but to carry on with the business of life. This is the function of the last line, "Horseman, pass by!"

This analysis, based on Lakoff and Turner's reading of the poem, hardly begins to exhaust the richness of its imagery. Before we go further into the poem, I want to call attention to the fact that all of this rich imagery arises out of a poem fragment which is three short lines, eleven words in length! This ability to capture an immense amount of life in a seemingly simple creation is one of the marvels of what we call "art."

Let's look more closely at the poem. Although the poem appears to be advice given from one person to another, we might also view this poem as Yeats' advice to himself. He obviously did not write from the grave. It must therefore reflect a duality of viewpoint Yeats held during his lifetime.

The first viewpoint belongs to a man already dead. From the perspective of the grave, he can look back over a life full of emotional concern for life and death, and realize that a colder view might have served him better.

The second viewpoint belongs to the horseman, who probably corresponds to Yeats in the midst of a passionate life, very much concerned with matters of life and death. After all, he wrote the poem, which is concerned with just those themes!

If we consider that contrasting viewpoints of a single situation correspond to contrasting experiences of that situation, then we may understand this poem as Yeats' attempt to find a novel resolution of an experiential conflict. Here is one possible formulation of both the conflict and the resolution offered by the poem.

Joe Goodbread

While we are in the midst of life, an excessively emotional concern with life and death may depress us and distract us from the business of living. We may arrive at the end of our lives and realize we have not lived as fully as we might have, had we possessed the insight we now have from the standpoint of the grave. This might give us cause to regret that we have wasted so much of our lives worrying about death. On the other hand, had we not lived as we had, we might never have achieved the dispassionate viewpoint which we now hold.

This is roughly the pattern of experience which lies behind the poem. The next question we must deal with is: How does this pattern help Fred unfold his experience of his own life situation?

There are strong parallels between Fred's situation and the experiential conflict portrayed by the poem. Fred's initial complaint was of isolation and depression. He did not know why he was depressed, but also felt too dependent on others' judgments and not attentive enough to his own needs. The first part of the work, his "trip to Mars," gave him access to the value of his own introverted world of experience. He had the opportunity to experiment with being his own man in the midst of a group of people. Contrary to his expectations, he neither bored nor alienated them. Paradoxically, Fred's dispassionate attitude toward human contact actually brought people closer to him!

The poem puts Fred's experience into a broader context by supplying him with an explanation for his depression. In light of our understanding of the poem, we can imagine that Fred's depression may come from an overly emotional preoccupation with life and death. Fred's viewpoint as he recited the poem corresponded to that of the dead poet. It was advice from beyond the grave, given to a younger man in the midst of life. The poem casts a new light on the relationship between Fred's depression and his need for a more detached view of his everyday life. They are different aspects of the same process. Viewed from the standpoint of the end of life, his depression and isolation are attempts to gain access to that detachment. Viewed from the standpoint of one in the midst of life, they are frustrating disturbances which seem to render him incapable of relating to his fellow human beings.

From what should Fred seek detachment? It is not only from his personal cares, but from the abstract, universal concepts of life and death. Fred shares his quest with some of the great spiritual traditions of the world. The question, "How shall I balance my passion for life against the reckoning which I fear will come at the time of my death?" is one that has plagued humankind since the dawn of consciousness.

We can now understand our third question: why did Fred's introduction of the poem have such a profound effect on the other workshop participants? It transformed his private concern over his depression into a universal concern about the right way to lead one's life. His approach to his own experiential conflict modeled a way for others to approach their own similar conflicts. The poem, within the context of Fred's personal struggle, offers us two viewpoints which we may hold in parallel at any stage of our lives. It goes beyond advice and action by showing us how to entertain two seemingly contradictory experiences in a way which brings them into meaningful relationship to one another. The poem is explicit: we can embrace both of these experiences by identifying with the poet and the horseman. Through doing so, we see both of their experiences as aspects of one coherent whole.

Poetry and Process Work: a complex relationship

Poetry and therapy interact in complex and interesting ways in this story. This interaction helps me to answer the question, "Why does Process Work sometimes look like art?"

Process Work resembles art because both arise from a similar impulse, an impulse to create new representations of the contradictory and indeterminate complexities of human experience. While their immediate goals may differ, both share an attitude which values the irrational, untidy and disturbing aspects of the human condition. They see this untidiness not as something to be remedied, but to be celebrated, framed and unfolded, in the ultimate faith that human beings have the resources to make something meaningful, useful and even beautiful out of the most awful-seeming parts of their natures.

Because both their immediate goals and forms differ, Process Work and art complement one another in their approaches to human experience. While an artist may intend to change people through her work, she must do this by appeal to universal principles. It is left to each viewer to make his or her own sense of the work, to make its universal message personal. Process Work starts at the other end of the spectrum, focusing on the individual and particular aspects of concrete experience. Through the work, clients often discover universal experiences behind apparently mundane personal troubles. The process by which they do this is not so different from the artist's. It is the job of the process worker to notice the universal in the particular, the poetic in the mundane, and to reconnect each client with the source of his or her own creative impulse.

Here the boundary between art and Process Work becomes indistinct. Creativity, skill, a sense for the artistic and a reverence for the complexity of human experience all play a role in setting the style and tone of a given piece of Process Work.

Lakoff and Turner comment on the value of poetry in modern society:

Western tradition, which has excluded metaphor from the domain of reason, has thereby relegated poetry and art to the periphery of intellectual life—something to give one a veneer of culture, but not something of central value in one's everyday endeavors...[t]here is an ancient and unbroken debate over whether poetry is misleading fancy to be dismissed or truth to be studied. The terms of this debate are mistaken: poets are both imaginative and truthful. (1989: 214-215)

In a similar way, I feel that the debate over whether Process Work is art is mistaken: it is both art and therapy, creation and empirical discovery. Trying to pin down human experience to any one category is like trying to wrestle with an eel. You can't win without killing it.

References

Goodbread, Joe. "The Role of Dreambody Concepts and Practice in the Development of Process Work: A Personal Memoir." Journal of Process Oriented Psychology Vol. 5 No. 2 (1993): 7-14.

Lakoff, George and Turner, Mark. More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989.

Mindell, Arnold. City Shadows: Psychological Interventions in Psychiatry. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1988.

Mindell, Arnold. Working with the Dreaming Body. HarmondWorth: Penguin Arkana, 1985.