|
Volume 24, Numbers 3 & 4 (2000) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum IMAGINATION AND INSURANCE: WALLACE STEVENS AND BENJAMIN LEE WHORF AT THE HARTFORD DAVID LAVERY* Ives: Mr. Stevens, nothing is empty. I’m an insurance man, Mr. Stevens. I guarantee the future. I let a man sleep nights because he knows that his family is protected from the random cruelties of this world. Can you call that empty? Stevens: Insurance? Did you say you were an insurance man? –Stuart Flack, American Life and Casualty1 From 1918 to 1941 the main office of the Hartford Insurance Company on Asylum Avenue in Hartford, Connecticut, “a solemn affair of granite, with a portico resting on five of the grimmest possible columns,”2 housed two most unusual employees. Upstairs in a big corner office, a Harvard graduate, bond-surety lawyer who became a vice-president of the company (in 1934), and, on the side, wrote poetry. Downstairs, in the fire insurance division, a fire prevention specialist, an engineering graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who was to become a well-known linguist. There is no clear evidence they knew each other. A letter to Whorf was mistakenly addressed to the poet but eventually reached the linguist on the first floor. If they became aware of each other’s work, prior to the fire-prevention linguist’s untimely death in 1941, I have been unable to determine. The bond-surety poet was thirty-nine years old when the fire prevention-linguist, eighteen years his junior, joined the company. He would outlive him by fourteen years. When Stevens was still very young, a Parisian stockbroker fled business and family to pursue his own creative vocation in the South Seas. A contemporary of both the poet and the linguist, an American business man, feigned a nervous breakdown and ran away from a successful career to become a writer, eventually ending up in Paris as a member of Gertrude Stein’s coterie. Wallace Stevens and Benjamin Lee Whorf unlike Paul Gauguin and Sherwood Anderson stayed at work, moonlighting genius, finding ways to contribute to the intellectual life of this century while dutifully doing their jobs. Like their contemporary Charles Ives, a Danbury, Connecticut insurance-executive-avant garde composer, they not only discovered the means to pursue the risks of avocational creation in an industry dedicated to the management of risk but became, each, in his own way, the ultimate risk takers–proponents of the relativity of perception, champions of the “real” as imaginary.” Too many critics have expressed a sort of innocent amazement that businessmen could actually write poetry, not to mention good and even great poetry. In different ways the public images of Stevens and Dickey have been especially distorted by this type of mythologizing. And it is easy to see why. The businessman-by-day poet-by-night contrast makes good copy. Everyone enjoys stories of double lives and secret identities. Children have Superman; intellectuals have Wallace Stevens. –Dana Gioia3Wallace Stevens was born on October 2, 1879 in Reading, Pennsylvania, the son of a lawyer (and sometime poet) Garrett Stevens and Margaretha Zeller Stevens. After graduating from Reading Boys High, he entered Harvard University in 1897, pursuing a special three year course of study in English. While at Harvard he served for a time as President of the Advocate, and his poetry and prose appeared in various campus publications. After working for a short time as an apprentice journalist in New York after leaving Harvard in 1900, he entered New York Law School, graduating in 1903. The following year he was admitted to the bar and worked without great success for various New York firms. In 1908 he joined an insurance company; it was the first of several such positions which would lead to a lifetime career in the field. In 1904, he met Elsie Kachel, whom he would marry five years later. The marriage would appear to have been, at least on the face of it, loveless. Following the marriage few acquaintances, either from the world of business or the world of poetry, would be invited into the Stevens’ home. “We are quiet, mouse-like people,” Stevens would later admit, “so timid. We would die in the company of eight people.”4 In 1916 Stevens joined the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company and was transferred to the home office in Connecticut. In 1914, after a fifteen year hiatus, Stevens began to publish poetry for the first time since his years at Harvard. As his career with the Hartford advanced, he continued to write poetry and his first book of poems, Harmonium, appeared in 1923; Stevens was 44. The following year their only child, a daughter, Holly Bright Stevens (1923-1992), was born. For the next five years, 1925 to 1930, adjusting to parenthood and recovering from the relatively poor public response to Harmonium, he would hardly write at all. In 1934, at the age of 50, he became Vice-President of the Hartford and head of the bonding division. The following year, a new book of poems, Ideas of Order, was published by a small press. In 1937 he published The Man With the Blue Guitar. Various universities (and other forums) invited him to speak, and for the next thirty years he lectured occasionally on poetry, poetics, and the nature of imagination. Several more books of poems followed with regularity in the 1940s and 1950s: Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction (1942), Parts of a World (1942), Esthétique du Mal (1945), Transport to Summer (1947), The Auroras of Autumn (1950). In 1951 his lectures and occasional pieces were published as The Necessary Angel. After long opposing its publication, Stevens finally cooperated in Knopf’s edition of his Collected Poems (1954). His reputation grew, leading to the conferral of several honorary degrees, election to the National Institute of Arts and Letters, a National Book Award, the Bollingen Prize for poetry, and two Pulitzer Prizes. He continued to work at the Hartford, long past mandatory retirement age, turning down an offer to become Charles Elliott Norton Professor at Harvard. He died on August 2, 1955 after a short illness. In The Wallace Stevens Case: Law and the Practice of Poetry, Thomas C. Grey, Professor of Law at Stanford, describes Stevens, the lawyer: “He was not a bar member; rather, he was a functionary in a large corporate bureaucracy, someone who neither went to court nor advised clients, and whose most valued skill was his business judgment; it was solitary, bookish, certainly not the typical work of a corporate executive.”5 According to some reports, Stevens kept his affairs as a businessman and lawyer at Hartford apart from his work as a poet. Thanks to Peter Brazeau’s meticulous interviews and some contemporary accounts, we know more about Stevens’ methods as a poet than about his work as a lawyer.6 We know, for example, that he frequently wrote lines in his head as he walked, and he walked all the time, winter and summer.7 As reported in The New Yorker during Stevens’ lifetime, a neighbor once bore witness to Stevens’ poetry under construction: Once, my sister, glancing out of a window, saw Stevens going by her house. As she watched, he slowed down, came to a stop, rocked in place for a moment or two, took a step backward, hesitated, then strode confidently forward-left, right, left, right-on his way to work. It was obvious to her that Stevens had gone back over a phrase, dropped an unsatisfactory word, inserted a superior one, and proceeded to the next line of the poem he was making.8As Stevens himself admitted, “You see, actually I bring my poetry to work and my secretary [Marguerite Flynn] types them up for me. It’s my way of being disloyal.”9 (Flynn was said to be the only person who could possibly decipher his handwriting. It was an up-and-down series of V’s for practical purposes.”10) Colleague Richard Sunbury recalls that He’d be writing [poems] right there at his desk, because he would stop dictating to Mrs. Baldwin. He would stop right in the middle of dictating, and he would reach down in his right-hand drawer, and he would just write down [something], put it back. I’ve seen him do that. He had a peculiar filing system. He always filed his poetry notes in his lower right corner of his desk, which open most of the time to a degree. It seemed to me there were sheaves and sheaves. And sometimes he would reach down, and he’d shuffle through three or four. He’d scratch out something or put something in. Or he might take the top one and just add a line or two. All of a sudden, he’d be reading a case, and I’ve seen him reach down in his drawer and just pick something up. His private copies of his commercial work or his business letters would go in his lower left-hand drawer. And when he finished signing the mail at night, the signed copies of his letter would be thrown on the right- hand side of his desk and the case that were to go back to file would be thrown on the floor on the left-hand side.11On March 18, 1948, Stevens delivered the Bergen Lecture at Yale, “The Effects of Analogy.” Professor Louis Martz recalled the visit for Peter Brazeau: He came up form New York with a big briefcase because he had been down doing legal business and came directly here. . . . As he was arranging to give his lecture, I took him back to my office. He opened up the briefcase and said, “Now you see everything is neatly sorted out here. Over in this compartment is my insurance business with the farmers, and over in this compartment, this is my lecture and some poems that I want to read. I keep them completely separate.”12Described by John Rogers as “a very meticulous worker,” and “a terrific man for legal research,” he was “the grinddingest guy they had there in executive row,”13 Stevens was not terribly disloyal, though he was protective of his privacy, and his grinding may have been a way of maintaining his creative space. “By and large, he did not have an invitation hanging on the door,” Hale Anderson, Jr. recalled, “quite the reverse. He was always, to most people who didn’t understand him, formidably busy. . . . He just concentrated on what he was doing, unless he pushed everything aside and began to scribble some poetry. One could never tell whether he was writing poetry. I never peeked over his shoulder-not by any means. But there were times when he would just put everything aside and be working on some personal notes.”14 An office boy, John Laddish, likewise recalled that Stevens might be discovered “making a lot of notes, and he wouldn’t have a file there. So you would say that he was just jotting down something [related to his poetry] that came into his mind. He asked us occasionally to go to the State Library and look up certain words and their definitions, not only in the American dictionaries but the Oxford English and any others that he would tell us to check. These were just words that he wanted to fit into his poetry.”15 Whether or not the Hartford actually approved of Stevens’ avocation is still a matter of some controversy. According to Clifford Burdge, his position provided Stevens with “a little enclave in the Hartford Accident. In other words, he didn’t fit into the pattern of a senior executive of an insurance company, personality-wise. And I had the feeling the company was proud to have this world-famous poet as a senior officer and would go out of its way to avoid interfering with him.”16 And according to his daughter, being named vice-president was in fact a major step in his career as a poet: “[A]t last, he felt safe in devoting some of his time and energy to poetry without fear of being “passed over” as an oddity, although he concealed his creative work from most of his insurance colleagues as well as he could for many years to come.”17 When fellow poet Delmore Schwartz claimed that Stevens had wondered, after delivering a lecture at Harvard, “what the boys in the office would think of that,” Stevens angrily denied that he had said any such thing: I feel quite sure that there is nothing to the point that I said something in that lecture by way of commenting on the oddness of an insurance man reading a lecture on poetry. I have never made any such comment and have never felt that it was odd for me to be doing such things. . . . Is any man supposed to be engaged in his business to the exclusion of everything else and, if he is, what do people think of him?18Still, co-workers recalled that he was inclined to keep his poetry a secret from the men in the field, many of whom knew him only by mail. In the mid-1920s, for example, when it was common knowledge among home-office staff that he was a writer, Stevens cautioned a lawyer in the field who stumbled upon Harmonium “not to speak of his literary efforts among our acquaintances, as it might hurt his business influence.” Among his fellow businessmen, who sized him up from a distance, Stevens was concerned that his reputation as an insurance man not be tarnished by stereotypes of the poet among the Babbits of business. Ironically, when young Stevens had begun writing seriously, he had not been altogether free from at least some of these American images of the poet as eccentric.19An art dealer, whose New York gallery Stevens visited regularly and who often witnessed his secretive behavior, speculated that Stevens’ “fear of being considered a ‘bohemian’ was genuine at first, but later became a habit and a pose.”20 It should not surprise us that, from Harmonium to The Rock, Wallace Stevens wrestled with, in almost endless variations, the relationship between the real and the imaginary, the ordinary and extraordinary. Did he not wonder aloud in his “Adagia” whether there might not be “a degree of perception at which what is real and what is imagined are one: a state of clairvoyant observation, accessible or possibly accessible to the poet or, say, the acutest poet.”21 Did he not hope to be that poet? Was not his ars poetica a vivid rationalization of his life situation? Was not his desire–expressed most brilliantly in the extraordinary final stanzas of “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”–to discover once and for all those “things [that] at last comprise / An occupation, an exercise, a work,” his career long yearning to finally possess “A thing final in itself and, therefore, good:/ One of the vast repetitions final in / Themselves and, therefore, good,” answered through embracing the repetitious, the ordinary: the going round And round and round, the merely going round,And perhaps (who knows) the great poet could even be an insurance executive. In a letter written near the end of his life, Stevens answered a friend’s question about his possible regrets about pursuing a career in insurance rather than as a poet. He replied in the following words: If Beethoven could look back on what he had accomplished and say that it was a collection of crumbs compared to what he had hoped to accomplish, where should I ever find a figure of speech adequate to size up the little that I have done compared to that which I had once hoped to do. Of course, I have had a happy and well-kept life. But I have not even begun to touch the spheres within spheres that might have been possible if, instead of devoting the principal amount of my time to making a living, I had devoted it to thought and poetry. Certainly it is as true as it ever was that whatever means most to one should receive all of one’s time and that has not been true in my case. But, then, if I had been more determined about it, I might now be looking back not with a mere sense of regret but at some actual devastation. To be cheerful about it, I am now in the happy position of being able to say that I don’t know what would have happened if I had had more time. This is very much better than to have had all the time in the world and have found oneself inadequate.23Wallace Stevens had only enough time, made only enough time, it is now apparent, to become one of the most important poets in English of the twentieth century. [O]nly the very busy have time for greatness. –Herbert Hackett, obituary for Benjamin Lee Whorf24Born on April 24, 1897 in Winthrop, Massachusetts, Benjamin Lee Whorf was the oldest of three sons of Harry Whorf, a commercial artist who experimented with playwriting and stage design, and Sarah Lee Whorf. Whorf graduated from Winthrop High School in 1914 and went on to MIT, receiving a B.S. in chemical engineering in 1918. After graduation, Whorf joined Hartford Fire Insurance as a trainee in fire prevention engineering. He remained with the Hartford for the rest of his short life, developing a national reputation as an expert in industrial fire prevention and authoring several articles on the subject, including one, “Blazing Icicles,” that offered a linguistic interpretation of accidents which cause fires. On November 6, 1920, he married Celia Peckham and settled in Wethersfield, Connecticut, a suburb of Hart-ford, becoming the parents of three children. Like Stevens, he, too, walked to work. A childhood love for ciphers and puzzles, reading and self-directed study, led to the development of a profound interest in linguistics, which he would pursue the rest of his life. Under the influence of the 19th century French mystic Fabre d’Olivet, himself an amateur linguist, and his own strong religious background (he was a Methodist), his study (which included actual field work) of American Indian languages like Aztec, Mayan, and Hopi led to his development of a theory of “linguistic relativity”–an approach to comparative linguistics which he shared with Yale anthropologist Edward Sapir. In the late 1920s he began a prolific correspondence with scholars in anthropology, archaeology, and linguistics, demonstrating a distinct talent for self-promotion; he sought to convince those with whom he corresponded that he had discovered a new frontier of human inquiry. In 1931, he enrolled as a graduate student at Yale in order to study under Sapir, thus beginning one of the most interesting cases of intellectual collaboration in this century, And he began to publish his ideas on linguistics not only in major scholarly journals (Language, American Anthropologist) but in more popular forums like MIT’s Technology Review. His three essays in the latter journal–“Science and Linguistics” (1940), “Linguistics as an Exact Science” (1940), and “Languages and Logic” (1941)–helped to disseminate his ideas widely. During 1940 and 1941, his essays and reviews on a wide variety of topics, all written while his health was deteriorating rapidly, appeared regularly in the pages of the decidedly non-mainstream “new age” journal Main Current in Modern Thought. He died of cancer on July 26, 1941. Under the editorship of John B. Carroll, many of Whorf’s most important essays were collected in Language, Thought, and Reality, and published in 1956 by the MIT Press. But he left behind a number of manuscripts on an astonishing range of subjects–gravitation, “being,” trees, color theory, evolution, a translation of Genesis, large stemmed plants, electromagnetism, the trinity, dreams, a Hopi dictionary–all of which remain unpublished. While Stevens’ stature has continued to rise since his death, Whorf has remained a controversial and largely neglected figure. Steven Pinker, for example, has accused Whorf of being a closet mystic whose “long-time leanings,” coupled with bad scholarship, produced his “outlandish claims.”25 Pinker is certainly correct that Whorf was strongly inclined toward some very unscientific notions. Though linguistics articles published during his lifetime show him making an effort to be scientific, examination of his other writings, including manuscripts in the Whorf papers entitled “The Flux-Outlet Theory: A Concrete Representation of Gravitation,” “Why I Have Discarded Evolution,” “Unanswered Questions from Ancient Times,” “On Being,” “Concerning Science and Religion,” as well as articles and reviews written for Main Currents in Modern Thought, reveal him to be a decidedly religious thinker, passionately interested in the esoteric, in and what Huxley called the “perennial philosophy.” Howard Gruber contends that underpinning the creative achievements of an individual like Thomas Edison, whose “network of enterprises” seemed almost infinitely complex, there may well lie a singular, possibly esoteric, world-view, a generative heuristic that yields fresh ideas when applied to distinct fields of inquiry. Though not an inventor, Benjamin Whorf’s “light bulb” seldom stopped going off in his short creative life. This “tall but frail” man, who “moved and talked deftly and gracefully,” spoke with a thick eastern Massachusetts accent, and accomplished a great deal “without seeming to have great energy,”26 this man who inherited from his mother a “deep sense of wonder at the mystery of the universe”27 and from his father-as-model commitment to a interdisciplinary set of intellectual interests, this man who loved to talk about his sea captain ancestors, waxing eloquent about the exploration of unknown lands,28 led a life committed to discovery, dedicated to breaking the cryptogrammatic codes that gloss our ordinary, culture-bound experience of the world. The “linguistic relativity” Whorf championed and sought to find “in all those other tongues which by aeons of independent evolution have arrived at different, but equally logical, provisional analyses” would, Whorf believed, provide the necessary “correctives” to the limitations imposed on the world by single language determinism. As much as his fellow relativist Einstein, Whorf was at heart a cosmologist, seeking to convince his narrow-minded contemporaries that they must no longer see a few recent dialects of the Indo-European family, and the rationalizing techniques elaborated from their patterns, as the apex of the evolution of the human mind, nor their present wide spread as due to any survival from fitness or to anything but a few events of history-events that could be called fortunate only from the parochial point of view of the favored parties. They, and our own thought processes with them, can no longer be envisioned as spanning the gamut of reason and knowledge but only as one constellation in a galactic expanse. A fair realization of the incredible degree of diversity of linguistic systems that ranges over the globe leaves one with the inescapable feeling that the human spirit is inconceivably old; that the few thousand years of history covered by our written records are no more than the thickness of a pencil mark on the scale that measures our past experience on this planet; that the vents of these recent millenniums spell nothing in any evolutionary wise, that the race has taken no sudden spurt, achieved no commanding synthesis during recent millenniums, but has only played with a few of the linguistic formulations and views of nature bequeathed from an inexpressibly long past.29Concerning Whorf’s amateur pursuit of linguistics, his editor John B. Carroll observed: It was truly remarkable that he was able to achieve distinction in two entirely separate kinds of work. During periods of his life, his scholarly output was enough to equal that of many a full-time research professor; yet he must have been at the same time spending some eight hours every working day in his business pursuits. His friends often speculated on why he chose to remain in his occupation. Although several offers of academic or scholarly research positions were made to him during the latter years of his life, he consistently refused them, saying that his business situation afforded him a more comfortable living and a freer opportunity to develop his intellectual interests in his own way.30In an obituary, a fellow linguist noted that “only the very busy have time for greatness.”31 Benjamin Whorf was very busy, busier almost, than it now appears possible to imagine. “To live a creative life is one of intentions of a creative person.” – Doris B. Wallace32In his explorations of the world, “ Howard Gruber has written, “the [creative] individual finds out what needs doing. In his attempts to do some of it, he finds out what he can do and what he cannot. He also comes to see what he need not do. From the intersection of these possibilities there emerges a new imperative, his sense of what he must do. How ‘it needs’ and ‘I can’ give birth to ‘I must’ remains enigmatic.”33 Stevens and Whorf needed to work, needed to be part of the “real world” of work in order to free that part of themselves which was creative. They both knew what they could not do, knew well what they need not do. They discovered as well as they went along what they must do: Stevens the poetry he must write, Whorf the linguistic theory he would expound. The great Spanish poet Juan Ramon Jiminez has spoken of creative work as either “voluntaria,” work that is undertaken under one’s own volition, and “necessaria,” the work one must do, work required by one’s own nature and psyche.34 Jiminez’s distinction seems to have been formulated with the modernist artist/intellectual in mind, the creative individual who leads an essentially solitary life dedicated to his vocation. But what are we to say of the creative individual whose “necessaria” includes real work, an actual desk job in, say, an insurance company? Stevens and Whorf were necessarians of imagination. The necessity of work did not, for them, preclude, as it did for Gaugin or Sherwood Anderson, attention to their mental lives; for them the boundary between vocation and avocation, between work and creative endeavors remained permeable. Perhaps this should not surprise us as much as it does. A creative life, it now seems apparent, always requires making peace between work that is “voluntaria” and “necessaria,” is always at the core the result of “a different organization of the system, an organization that was constructed by the person himself in the course of his life, in the course of his work, as needed in order to meet the tasks that he encountered and that he set himself.”35 * Professor of English, Middle Tennessee State University. For a web version of this essay, see: http://www.mtsu.edu/~dlavery/imagins.htm 1. Stuart Flack, “American Life and Casualty,” <http://www.mtsu.edu/~dlavery/ Stevens/amlife.htm> (visited July 15, 2000). 2. Holly Stevens (ed.), LETTERS OF WALLACE STEVENS 283 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996) (1966). 3. Dana Gioia, “Business and Poetry,” in CAN POETRY MATTER? ESSAYS ON POETRY AND AMERICAN CULTURE 113-139, at 124 (St. Paul, Minnesota: Graywolf Press, 1992). 4. George S. Lensing, WALLACE STEVENS: A POET’S GROWTH 65 (Baton Rouge: LSU Press, 1986). 5. Thomas C. Grey, THE WALLACE STEVENS CASE: LAW AND THE PRACTICE OF POETRY 18 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991). 6. Peter Brazeau, PARTS OF A WORLD: WALLACE STEVENS REMEMBERED, AN ORAL BIOGRAPHY (San Francisco: North Point Books, 1983). 7. Miller, the janitor in Alex Cox’s Repo Man (1984), insists that “the more you drive, the less intelligent you are”; Wallace Stevens never owned a car. 8. “Here at The New Yorker,” cited by Lensing, supra note 4, at 133. 9. Brazeau, supra note 6, at 207. 10. Id. at 23. 11. Id. at 38. 12. Quoted in Brazeau, supra note 6, at 172. 13. Id. at 20. 14. Id. at 23. 15. Id. at 25. 16. Id. at 30. 17. Letters of Wallace Stevens, supra note 2, at 256. 18. Brazeau, supra note 6, at 163. 19. Id. at 48. 20. Lensing, supra note 4, at 92. 21. Wallace Stevens, OPUS POSTHUMOUS: POEMS, PLAYS, PROSE 192 (New York: Vintage, 1989) (New Edition, Milton J. Bates ed.). 22. Wallace Stevens, COLLECTED POEMS 405-406 (New York: Knopf, 1950). 23. Letters of Wallace Stevens, supra note 2, at 669. 24. Herbert Hackett, Benjamin Lee Whorf, 19 WORD STUDY 1 (1954). 25. Steven Pinker, THE LANGUAGE INSTINCT 59-65 (New York: HarperCollins, 1994). 26. John B. Carroll, “Benjamin Lee Whorf,” in Edward T. James (ed.), DICTIONARY OF AMERICAN BIOGRAPHY 819-20, at 820 (New York: Scribner, 1973) (Supplement 3, 1941-1945). 27. George L. Trager, “Benjamin L. Whorf,” in 16 INTERNATIONAL ENCYCLOPEDIA OF THE SOCIAL SCIENCES 536-38, at 537 (New York: MacMillan Co., 1968). 28. Id. 29. Benjamin Whorf, LANGUAGE, THOUGHT, AND REALITY: SELECTED WRITINGS OF BENJAMIN LEE WHORF 218-219 (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1956) (John B. Carroll ed.). 30. John B. Carroll, “Introduction” to LANGUAGE, THOUGHT, AND REALITY: SELECTED WRITINGS OF BENJAMIN LEE WHORF, 1-34, at 5. 31. Hackett, supra note 24, at 4. 32. Doris B. Wallace, “Studying the Individual: The Case Study Method and Other Genres,” in Doris B. Wallace and Howard E. Gruber (eds.), CREATIVE PEOPLE AT WORK 25-43, 29 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989). 33. Howard E. Gruber, DARWIN ON MAN: A PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDY OF SCIENTIFIC CREATIVITY 257 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). 34. Stanley Burnshaw, THE SEAMLESS WEB: LANGUAGE-THINKING, CREATURE-KNOWLEDGE, ART-EXPERIENCE 49 (New York: George Braziller, 1970). 35. Howard E. Gruber, From Epistemic Subject to Unique Creative Person at Work, 54 ARCHIVES DE PSYCHOLOGIE 167, 177 (1985). |
