This article was invited to exemplify a specific theory and methodology of discourse and text analysis that has been developed over the past 35 years, and various aspects and applications of the method have been published in an extensive number of anthologies, monographs, and articles (Andrews & Tobin, 1997; Aphek & Tobin, 1988, 1989/1990; Blum-Kulka, Tobin, & Nir, 1981; Contini-Morava & Tobin, 2000; Contini-Morava & Sussman Goldberg, 1995; Davis, Gorup, & Stern, 2006; De Jonge & Tobin, 2011; Dreer, 2007; Gorlach, 2004; Kirsner, Contini-Morava, & Rodriguez-Bachiller, 2004; Perez & Sagy, 2011; Perez & Tobin, 2009, 2010; Perez, Tobin, & Sagy, 2010; Reid, Otheguy, & Stern, 2002; Tobin, 1988, 1989a, 1993, 2002, 2005; Tobin & Perez, 2009; Waisman, 2010). The analysis here utilizes the CS, a semiotic or sign-oriented linguistic approach originally inspired by Saussure (1916/1983) and expanded upon by Tobin (1990, 1994/1995). Both language and text are defined as “a system of systems composed of various sub-systems” (p. 7) which are “organized internally and systematically related to each other and used by human beings to communicate” (p. 47), and the structure of language is seen as shaped by its communicative function and by its users’ characteristics. Complex semiotic systems are composed of linguistic signs—defined as signals of any size (syllable, word, phrase, sentence, etc.) associated with individual meanings, which must share a common semantic denominator in order to fit into the same semantic and grammatical systems (Tobin, 1990, 1994/1995). While each linguistic sign has only one invariant meaning that motivates its distribution in language, this consistent, unitary meaning can produce many extra-linguistic messages in diverse linguistic and situational contexts (Tobin, 1990, 1994/1995).

This analysis rests on the fundamental assumption that the linguistic sign can be analyzed as an individual unit within a number of potentially interrelated semiotic systems in order to gain insight into the larger messages of a narrator’s discourse. Human beings tend to assume that we know the signs and signals of our own language a priori, but it has been contended that we—humans, in general, and linguistic analysts, in particular—must begin “from scratch” each time we confront a potential sign, creating hypotheses anew regarding both the signal and its meaning, and the manner in which both are employed in creating new extra-linguistic messages by different speakers/writers in diverse linguistic and situational contexts (Tobin, 1990).

The CS defines communication as the creation of oppositions by means of linguistic signs, as demonstrated in the following examples:

-> See the list of figures

The choice of each member in these binary oppositions directly affects the extra-linguistic message the encoder aims to convey. The unitary, invariant meaning of each linguistic sign thus motivates its non-random distribution in language to create different messages, and the analysis of the non-random distribution of signs allows an understanding of the extra- linguistic message(s) of a text and the motivations behind the narrator’s choices.

The analytical method presented in this paper integrates sign- oriented linguistics with psychosocial discourse analysis techniques and theory, by means of a focus on the Modern Israeli Hebrew (MIH) pronoun and tense systems and their particular use in the analyzed text. In this sense, we utilize the theoretical background on these language systems as a conceptual framework for understanding the data. In doing so, we apply the linguistic meanings assigned to the systems to the discourse, while interpreting the connections between the discourse and the psychosocial world of the speaker. Thus, the MIH pronoun and tense systems will now be discussed and interpreted linguistically, as a conduit to understanding the methodology in action in this analysis.

A central tenet of sign-oriented linguistics holds that “successful linguistic communication can only be achieved through the combined effort of an encoder and a decoder cooperating together” (Tobin, 1990, p. 48; Tobin, 1994/1995, p. 11). As such, the pronoun system in MIH must be understood in terms of its invariant meanings: encoder (first-person), decoder (second-person), and other (third-person). There are ten personal pronouns in MIH, but only the three pronouns relevant to the present analysis will be explicated here. Unlike in English, verbs in MIH are conjugated for person (first/second/third), number (singular/plural), and gender (masculine/feminine). The use of the pronoun+conjugated verb collocation is thus optional, as in most cases, the conjugated verb itself overtly displays the pronominal information. [2]

The first-person singular pronoun (ani in Hebrew; I in English) signifies “encoder,” referring to “the one who speaks here and now,” and can be considered the most proximate and personal pronoun, as it is ego- centered. It is the most specific or “known” pronoun, leaving little ambiguity as to the identity of the speaker. This form is used to relate to personalized events, actions, or states, and cannot represent a relation to anything or anyone but the encoder. As Pennebaker (2002) notes, “The use of 1 ^st person singular (I, me, my)…provides insight into people’s social identity and ‘ownership’ of their speaking or writing topic” (p. 8). Alternatively, the first-person plural pronoun (anachnu in Hebrew; we in English) signifies a plural or collective encoder, which is also ego- centered but indicates more than a solitary individual encoder. This requires further interpretation of the identities of those who comprise this collective entity and the reasons for this discursive choice.

The third-person masculine plural (MP) pronoun (hem in Hebrew; they in English) functions as the unmarked form when referring to all- male or mixed-gender groups. When the MP conjugated form of a verb is being used as the unmarked, generic form, it need not be collocated with a pronoun, and therefore, could potentially refer to you, they, or even we in the present tense. This is essentially the most neutral and distant verb form, as it requires the most added information to ascertain its specific message in different linguistic and situational contexts. Sentences with the third-person MP verb forms can thus be interpreted as being generic, “passive,” and/or “impersonal.”

The tense system in MIH can also be understood in terms of its invariant meanings and potential interpretive messages, revolving around signs indicating what are referred to as “traditional simple” past, present, and future tenses. This traditional analysis, however, is not fully accurate because these tenses are not limited in time (e.g., the present tense can refer to events in the past and the future) or function (e.g., the past tense can refer to hypothetical events in the present and future, and the future tense functions as an imperative). Therefore, an alternative CS analysis centered on the Space-Time-Existence system has been proposed, one “whose semantic substance deals with the placing of events/actions/states in their spatio-temporal-existential relation to the speaker at the point (or the ‘here and now’) of speaking” (Tobin, 1989b, p. 63). Within this system, the invariant meaning of the “present” tense is proximate, while that of the “past” and “future” tenses is remote with regard to the encoder. Furthermore, the Space-Time-Existence system is interlocked with the Experience system, the “semantic domain” of which is “the speaker’s ability to perceive or experience an event/action/state” (Tobin, 1989b, p. 63). Within this system, the invariant meaning of the “present” and “past” tenses is experienced, while that of the future tense is not experienced.

Thus, there are two interlocked semantic sub-systems of the MIH tense system: 1) the “past” tense means remote and experienced; 2) the “present” tense means proximate and experienced; and 3) the “future” tense means remote and not experienced (Tobin, 1989b). Furthermore, the use of particular tenses in an individual’s discourse may not be determined by the actual time of occurrence of the described event/action/state, but rather by the encoder’s perception of these events/actions/states with regard to proximity and “experience-ability” (Tobin, 1989b). A speaker may thus use one tense rather than another to express his attitude about what he is describing. An example might be the use of the proximate-experienced “present” tense to describe events that objectively occurred in the past, but are perceived by the encoder as being relevant and “close to his/her heart”—often referred to as the historical present tense in the traditional grammar system. Therefore, “the consistent and systematic preference of one verb tense over another…may tell us something about the encoder’s attitude toward those actions, states, or events, and/or indicate his particular world view” (Tobin, 1989b, p. 65).

Both linguistics and discursive social psychology investigate the choice of language forms by individuals within their social contexts, but do so in quite different ways and from different angles. Linguists explore discourse in order to understand the intricacies of the choice and meanings of the linguistic forms, while social psychologists explore the user of the discourse and how the language reflects his/her attendant behavior and attributions. Kroger and Wood (1998) write, “At the most general level, the topic of social psychology is discourse because it is in and through discourse that the specific topics of interest (e.g., attribution, social comparison) are constituted” (p. 269). Thus, discourse is viewed by traditional social psychology as the means rather than the end; the reflection of (or conduit toward understanding) a personal, interpersonal, or societal reality, rather than a phenomenon to be understood in and of itself.

Discourse analysis is the term most often used within the social sciences for the type of text analysis routinely conducted within CS linguistics. However, this method focuses more on interpersonal and societal meanings, and on the social construction of these meanings. Widdowson (2007) discusses two broad areas that he views as comprising discourse analysis: “how people make meaning and make out meaning, in texts,” on the one hand, and how meanings are “socially constructed so that expressing them is effectively a kind of social practice,” on the other (p. xv). Wetherell (1998) goes even further, contending that discourse can actually be equated with the overreaching human process of making meaning itself. Discursive psychology, the larger academic sub-field, holds as its central assumption that “the phenomena of interest in social and psychological research are constituted in and through discourse” (Edwards & Potter, 1992; Potter & Wetherell, 1987). Within the post- structural view, there is a greater focus on the interactive and dynamic relationship between identity and discourse. Following Francis (2002), Andersson (2008) writes, “There is no ‘real’ self or ‘authentic’ identity independent of the discursive environment; rather, people are positioned by particular discourses as coherent selves” (p. 143-144). This is, in many ways, an important point of convergence between psychosocial discourse analysis and linguistic theory.

Discourse analysis in the social sciences purports to study the intricacies of the language employed, but we have found that analyses can appear less comprehensive and may be less associated with a specific linguistic approach or theory. Kroger and Wood (1998) refer to a reliance on “an extensive set of devices or strategies for examining discourse in a variety of ways,” but the focus is most often placed more on the speaker than on the speech, and more on the larger social meanings and contexts than the specific use of language in a specific point in time (p. 270). Indeed, Kroger and Wood (1998) state that “discourse analysis attempts to elucidate the social functions and consequences of discourse” (p. 271). While this brings in an important perspective, it leaves the exploration of the language itself somewhat incomplete, as it may be lacking a basis in a specific linguistic theory.

Kroger and Wood (1998) have suggested that the field of discursive psychology is in current need of a conceptual shift toward the idea that talk itself is the “event of interest,” as it is the discourse itself that constructs the reality illustrated in the aforementioned “topics of interest.” Similarly, Potter (2003) points to “a positive recognition of the primacy of discourse as a medium for action,” suggesting the necessity for a combined analytical focus on language and behavior as intimately connected (p. 785). Kroger and Wood (1998) called for a new method within discursive psychology, one that involves “increased conceptual and methodological rigour,” rather than “a decline into a mushy, relativistic, touchy-feely methodology,” and that “must be suitable to penetrate beyond the common-sense appearances of social interaction” (p. 270). They suggested going “back to the data, to the initial utterance, to the performative force of these initial actions,” seeking and identifying patterns in the discourse and requiring that hypotheses be fully supported by evidence (p. 270). This is precisely what CS linguistic analysis does.

Indeed, the traditional CS approach focuses on the non-random distribution of language and the invariant meanings therein. It is based on specific language analyses from specific theories, which can be validated by a psychosocial perspective when necessary. The extra-linguistic message, not in itself considered part of the linguistic theory, is then inferred and proposed—a presumably plausible hypothesis that can be accepted and shared by encoders and decoders. While this extra-linguistic inference is often an important part of an analysis, it is not viewed as a requirement or as the “ultimate answer” of the linguistic analysis. In contrast, socio-psychological discourse analysis places far less emphasis on the specifics and mechanics of linguistic forms and patterns, and much greater focus on the manners in which people and things are constructed through talk and interaction. Indeed, the study of social discourse is essentially a study of extra-linguistic messages, and has no direct need to be associated with a specific linguistic theory.

Linguistics and social psychology, as academic fields, generally function independently of each other and do not appear to find it necessary to even enter into a shared discussion. We propose, however, that both are missing essential parts of the “larger puzzle,” and might thus complement each other well. The method put forth in this paper—by an author from each field—employs theoretical and methodological tenets from both sign-oriented linguistics and social psychology, in an effort to bridge this gap. We are interested in both the patterned meanings of the linguistics, and the larger individual and societal implications of the extra-linguistic messages of Amos’s life story text.

There are two predominant examples of the first opposition. The first occurs in the second and third sentences of Amos’s life story: “I came at the age of two. I came—(they) brought me” (1-2). Here, he initially attempts to send the message that he alone immigrated to Israel, seemingly of his own accord. Amos then states again, “I came,” but corrects himself by emphasizing that he was indeed brought by a heretofore-unknown “they.” It is interpretively significant that Amos both restates his original message of independence and presents “the actual facts.” When weighed against the alternatives (i.e., “My family came when I was two,” or, “They brought me when I was two”), Amos’s use of a direct opposition between “I” and “they” sends the message that he wants to be seen as self-sufficient, brave, and perhaps, precociously Zionist. This can be interpreted within the hegemonic, ideological Zionist societal discourse surrounding him during his formative years, which prescribed all of these characteristics as the “correct” and “acceptable” way to be.

The second example involves Amos employing the same pronoun opposition in the opposite order, but in a similar message: “I worked for a few years in agriculture. After that, (they) assigned me—(they) assigned, I took on the task of establishing a factory…” (24-26). Here, Amos starts by talking about his agricultural work as a member of the kibbutz collective. He then shifts to the unspecified “they,” stating twice that the task of establishing a factory was assigned to him by an external party; presumably, the kibbutz collective or the decision-makers therein. Amos then corrects himself, again by repeating the initial statement and then bringing in what he sees as the “real facts.” Here, he employs this opposition to emphasize his own hard work and entrepreneurship, as he wasn’t just assigned a task, but rather, took on this substantial project. Again, given that Amos could easily have omitted these two references, this message comes across as meaningful and significant. Perhaps Amos wants to emphasize that this project was not initially his idea, but that he made it his own and ultimately successfully accomplished this tremendous task, on his own.

It is also analytically significant that all of Amos’s uses of the third-person plural (“they”) form do not make use of the pronoun itself. This “pro-drop” construction employs the unmarked MP verb as the generic subject, with no requirement to identify who the specific “they” may be. In fact, Amos uses this technique to refer to a variety of different “they’s”: first, his family (1-2; 4); then, the officers of the Palmach (10; 14); then, the “powers that be” at Kibbutz Gev (25; 30-31); and then, presumably, the same decision-makers at Gev (31-32; 38-39). The only instance of Amos’s use of the third-person plural form with a collocated definitive indication of specific identity comes when he refers to “my mother’s family” (2-3, 6). This pattern of discursive choices serves to create a sense of depersonalization and “genericization” of the “they” voice in Amos’s story, as the use of the third-person plural signifies a de- focusing on the agent, similar in purpose to the use of the passive verb form. In contrast, the use of the “I” confers and imposes upon Amos a sense of agency and action performed by him and only him. This can be interpreted as a message that only he is the main actor in his life story, and all other figures exist therein only as vague, amorphous supporting characters. Even his family appears as a non-elaborated afterthought, identified or not. Some of these supporting actors may have helped him more or less on his journey, but all took a distinct “backseat” in his own action-oriented, hard-working, independent, courageous (early) life course.

Amos’s text includes four prominent examples of oppositions between the first-person singular (“I”) vs. first-person plural (“we”) subjects. The first builds on the first example above, about Amos’s coming vs. being brought to Israel: “I came—(they) brought me. We at the first stage, because my mother’s family mainly, were in Balfur, so we came to Balfur for a few years” (1-3). Here, he presents a meaningful “triple opposition,” first between himself and them, and then against the “we” subject. Amos seems to be sending a message about the perceived relational dynamics signifying these early years—which can be paraphrased as, “First, it was ‘I’ against ‘them,’ and then ‘we’ emerged.” Here, Amos is more focused on the actions and experiences of the cohesive family unit, as expressed in the repeated use of “we.” To put this into perspective, Amos could certainly have continued using singular and discursively “separated” pronouns, such as “I at the first stage,” (this phrase was not completed, in any case) or “they brought me to Balfur.”

Amos continues in the collective, familial “voice”: “After that we moved to Tel Aviv” (3-4). Immediately following this, however, he says, “In Tel Aviv I was…I studied at the Beit Chinuch…” (4-5). With this, Amos’s reference to his family ends; they do not appear in his life story again. This may confirm the previous message that supporting characters make appearances in Amos’s narrative only as backdrops, or as vehicles to transport or guide him to the next setting or accomplishment. Here, his family “helped” to bring him, first to Balfur, and then to Tel Aviv, and then vanished from the story. Amos “took it from there,” and his reference to his Beit Chinuch studies thus begins a long list of accomplishments, none of which further involve or show any influence from his family.

The next example is another “triple opposition”: “Within this framework I was sent to the Palmach. Because then we had reached the point that all Hachshara provided a quota for the Palmach. It was still before (they) had recruited all the Hachsharas. And I was in the Palmach…” (7-11). Again, Amos places the “I” in direct juxtaposition with the “we” and the “they.” The specific identities of the latter subjects are unspecified, but the opposition sends a message nonetheless. As viewed through the initial use of the “I,” Amos himself was sent to the Palmach, on his own and not as part of any collective. He then positions himself as a member of a group—perhaps the Machanot Olim, or the elite Palmach fighters, or the larger collective of Israeli men. The pronominal subject is ambiguous, but the message is not: Amos belongs. In this context, in this moment of his life history, he was part of something. This is the first “we” that does not involve or include his family, and it is a significant one.

Amos then shifts his focus to the unspecified “they” who had conducted the recruiting, perhaps to further emphasize the elite nature of his selection for the position, and concludes his discussion of the Palmach by returning to an “I”-focus. Amos then provides the final opposition between “I” and “we”: “I was in…2 ^nd Company. After that we moved over to the 4 ^th Battalion…” (11-12). This discursive shift is in the opposite direction from that above, and may be interpreted within the context of military philosophy and practices, wherein the physical, emotional, and mentality shift from individualism to collectivism is, perhaps, the hallmark of induction. Amos is sending the discursive message that he began his military service as an “I,” but by his next assignment, “he” had become part of a “we.” This builds upon the “we” in the example above, further confirming the hypothesis that Amos is emphasizing his sense of belongingness.

In the final analysis of this opposition, analytical attention must be paid to the specific (or non-specific) identities of each of the subjects within the “we”-voice of Amos’s text. The first three “we’s” occur in a cluster (2-4; 5, 7, 8), and all refer to Amos and his family, although specific identity is unclear (i.e., nuclear and/or extended family, and who exactly comprised the members). The fourth “we” (8-9; 13) is also unclear, but the final “we” is unmistakably army-related (12; 18). Nonetheless, this “4 ^th Battalion we” is still not fully described—Amos does not elaborate on its members’ names, identities, characteristics, or even indicate how many there were. The dominance of the “I”-voice in Amos’s life story, coupled with the vagueness and lack of elaboration regarding the collective subjects, provides further evidence for Amos’s message of independence and self-sufficiency, at least during the first half of the text.

The third opposition regards Amos’s use of active vs. passive discourse. We interpret active discourse as reflecting control, responsibility, and commitment, and passive as a lack of control and/or responsibility and/or commitment. In this context, the use of the non- specified, generic third-person MP impersonal subject also performs a discursive task similar to the passive voice, sending a message of “de- focusing on the agent.” There are many examples of this in Amos’s text, some which have already been presented within the other oppositional categories. For instance, Amos’s statement, “I came at the age of two. I came -- (they) brought me,” (1-2) can be viewed not only within the “I” vs. “they” opposition, but also as an opposition based on locus of control. The pronoun shift itself transfers Amos from the position of actor in his story to that of being acted upon. Similarly, Amos’s discursive choice to distinguish between being “assigned” to establish the factory and taking on the task himself (25-27) is representative of the opposite shift. That is, Amos takes himself out of the realm of the passive receiver of others’ actions, or being handed down a task by the amorphous “they”—and places himself discursively into the active, responsible role.

Another significant example lies in Amos’s discussion of his Palmach experience: “I was sent to the Palmach” (8), and shortly thereafter, “And I was in the Palmach…” (10-11). The Hebrew construction creates a stronger opposition, but even in English, the distinction between being sent to and being in an organization is apparent. In the former, the locus of control and action is placed squarely on an external party, while in the latter, only Amos is responsible for his remaining there. Given the prestige and honor associated with Palmach membership, it is unclear why Amos chose to emphasize that he was initially sent, rather than choosing to enlist of his own accord. Perhaps members of his youth group had to be chosen for enlistment, and perhaps having been selected for this role by this external entity was part of the honor.

A similar choice for active phrasing is shown in Amos’s statement, “I was released from the army” (20). Although this appears, in its English construction, as more passive phrasing, the Hebrew construction must be placed in contrast to the alternative, which could have been, “(They) released me from the army.” In this case, there is no more active alternative, other than “going AWOL,” which is not consistent with Amos’s actual life history. These examples demonstrate Amos’s patterned discursive choice to place himself into the active locus of control wherever possible in the first part of his life story.

In the post-stroke section, however, Amos presents two distinctly different examples of this opposition. The first was, “It bothers me quite a bit these days. Meaning…the shift between disability and activity, it creates a problem for me…” (38-39). Here, he employs the pronoun “it” twice, defining “it” as his difficulty dealing with the physical consequences of his stroke and his inability or unwillingness to fully accept his limitedness. Similarly, Amos states, “I got sick, so it took me out of the…frame,” (55-56) where “it” can be interpreted as standing in for either his illness or the resulting disability. What is significant in these three examples is Amos’s placement of this “it” as the actor, or perpetrator; that is, as a personified force that first “bothers” and then “creates a problem,” and finally, takes him “out of the…frame” entirely. When considering the many possible alternatives for this message, we could imagine, for instance, “I am quite bothered by it these days,” or “I am having a problem with…”, or “I went out of the frame because of it.” All three options, while still expressing difficult experiences and unpleasant feelings, place Amos as the main character and experiencer— rather than focusing on his illness as the perpetrator of these unfortunate circumstances.

The fourth opposition involves Amos’s usage of “past” vs. “present” tense, or, as is conceptualized in Tobin’s (1989b) Space-Time- Existence system, remote vs. proximate experiences. As was apparent in Table 1, all of Amos’s uses of “we” and “they” were collocated with a remote-past-tense verb. [7] His usage of “I,” however, was divided between the remote-past and proximate-present tenses, with the former being used approximately twice as often as the latter. The following table shows the partition of the “I”-voice into these two tenses.

-> See the list of tables

The non-random patterns in Amos’s discourse emerge as clearly evident. The remote-past “I” is filled with actions, roles, membership and belongingness, jobs, and accomplishments. Amos’s stroke is first introduced in this “voice” (40), but the resultant negative effects and limitations do not exist here. Indeed, directly following the “zbeng,” Amos immediately returns to his “intact mind” (43), abilities (“I got up by myself” (53)), and another substantial list of his pre-stroke roles and accomplishments. He returns to having “got[ten] sick” (69-70) then concludes the remote-past “I”-voice with a single reference to his post- stroke non-activity. The final entry is perhaps the most significant, as Amos’s choice to use the remote-past tense (“I was limited” (73)) places this concluding statement in the remote-experienced realm, rather than the proximate-experienced or extended, habitual present. When questioning the alternatives, “I am limited,” seems a plausible option, especially in light of the many similar statements in the proximate-present “I”-voice. Amos’s choice here, as well as its placement as the final “I”-statement of his life story, therefore, emerges as highly meaningful. Perhaps he hopes to place his limitation and illness into the proverbial remote past, or perhaps he simply refuses to allow his disability to remain forever in the extended proximate realm.

Contrary to the remote-past “I”-voice, the proximate-present is characterized almost entirely by Amos’s post-stroke life. Except for a single mention of his lack of memory about the year he entered the Palmach, the entire proximate-present “I”-voice exists after the “zbeng” and deliberates around his resulting disabilities and abilities. There is little action, other than “read[ing] books” (47) and “read[ing] the newspaper” (48), and the majority of statements deal with saying, thinking, sitting, and being (“bound to the chair” (41), and, “[completely] limited” (55, 58). There are three references to being healthy (46, 51, 57), but they are all qualified by Amos’s deliberations on the subject and interposed with statements about his disability and lack of health. In stark contrast to the remote-past “I”-voice, Amos’s proximate-present involves no accomplishments, no active roles, and no sense of purpose. The proximate-present “I”-voice concluding sentence relates to Amos’s extended current lacks of activity, inclusion, belonging, and initiative.`

The fifth opposition regards the presentation of events and situations in a forward-moving chronological manner vs. the presentation of events and situations as arrested or “frozen in time.” Building upon Amos’s patterned uses of the remote-experienced “past” and proximate- experienced “present” tenses, this finding focuses the analytical lens on his uses of specific discourse markers of time and movement, or lack thereof. Within this analytical perspective, we found that Amos’s life story was clearly partitioned into two parts. The first part (1-35) tells the story of his pre-stroke life, and is characterized by much forward movement in time, chronicling an accomplished, active life. The second part (35-60) tells the story of Amos’s life after the stroke, and is characterized by stagnation, an extended present filled with little action, movement (both discursive and physical), or accomplishment. The following table presents all the phrases in Amos’s text related to time and chronology, divided by the analytical opposition and by these two parts of the text. It is significant that this division occurred naturally in the text; that is, there is not a single phrase in the first section that can be interpreted as arrested in time, and there is no statement in the second section that appears to show forward movement in time. [10]

-> See the list of tables

The first column shows Amos’s significant number of accomplishments, listed chronologically and sequentially. In this “chronological voice,” Amos uses the phrase, “after that,” nine times, in addition to various time-focused phrases such as, “first stage,” “a long time,” “before,” “from the year,” “in the beginning,” “for six years,” “for a few years,” “up until,” “then,” and “in the end.” This first section of his life story is filled with forward movement, action—essentially, life. Amos seems to send the message that this chronological list of accomplishments and milestones is the essence of his life, and what he perceives as a successful life. His lack of elaboration on any of these list entries can be interpreted as his sense that what is important is the existence itself of each accomplishment in his life history, and not the stories behind them. His repeated use of, “after that,” can be seen as Amos walking his audience through this important list, making sure that nothing is left off or provided out of sequence. This repetitive phrase gives a sense of forward movement through time—a life that is following its “correct” path, in a positive direction.

All of this is halted with the single sentence, “That’s it, until…I got a zbeng” (35). From this point on, Amos’s discourse is filled only with phrases that stagnate and are essentially arrested in time. His repeated use, in this second section, of, “that’s…”—as in, “that’s it” (35, 47), “that’s that” (59), “that’s a long time” (48), and “that’s my life” (54)—stands in direct contrast to his repetition of, “after that,” in the first section. Indeed, this opposition displays the dialectic between forward movement in the first part of Amos’s life story, and backward-facing, static rumination in the second. In his post-stroke life, Amos focuses on what he does “these days,” “today,” or “now,” and when he does venture beyond the extended present moment, it is only to compare his current disability with his past abilities—as in, “beforehand I got up by myself” (44), and “until I got sick” (55). The most significant information for our analysis lies in Amos’s statement that “it’s already…15 years” (47) since his stroke. Here, he volunteers evidence of the stagnant nature of his discourse, speaking of his life in these past 15 years as completely devoid of movement, action, and purpose. It is as if “the zbeng” functions as a discursive stop sign—all was fine and progressing nicely until the stroke, then everything stopped. This is reminiscent of Aristotle’s concept of denouement, a classic narrative text structure that divides a text into two sections—effectively, before and after (Miller, 1978). In Amos’s text, the stroke functions as the climax, or turning point, of the narrative, splitting it into these two sections.

The final set of oppositions emerges from a reading of Amos’s text that might be classified by Lieblich, Tuval-Mashiach, and Zilber (1998) as within the holistic-content mode of analysis, and exists in a number of themes found in the content of the narrative. The first thematic opposition can be characterized as a dialectic between successes and limitations, while the second is a dual dialectical theme involving health vs. illness and expectations vs. disappointments. In Amos’s case, these themes were inextricably tied together, as health and expectations seemed to converge to form one side of the dialectic against illness and disappointments on the other side. The first theme will be analyzed across the entire text, while the second will be explored only in the post-stroke part of Amos’s life story.

Our interdisciplinary analysis uncovered the non-random distribution of the language and oppositions in Amos’s life story in order to understand the linguistic meanings and extra-linguistic, socio- psychological messages. We demonstrated connections between the content and form, and between the micro and macro levels, and we spiraled through the analytical process, widening and narrowing the analytical lens to focus on different sections, facets, and themes within the text. Each time we asked how a particular statement could have been expressed differently, we received very different answers, depending on the analytical focus at that moment. There were several points at which we presented the same excerpts from alternative perspectives, in order to support diverse hypotheses. On the basis of a mere 60 text lines, we conducted a comprehensive analysis, finding six central oppositions in Amos’s text and proposing main messages for each of them. The following table presents a summary of these interpretive results.

-> See the list of tables

Ultimately, it is apparent from each message, and from the collection of messages together, that the analytical focus shifted through each oppositional category, allowing us to focus differently on the text as a whole, and on specific parts of the text individually. Each message both builds on the previous one and brings in a new perspective. Each also brings its focus on its own particular opposition, and each can be taken as a finding on its own, or as part of the interpretive collective of the text analysis.

Taking into account all these hypothesized messages, the final analysis produces a single extra-linguistic message emerging from Amos’s life story text: I am a divided man. Amos’s text, itself, is divided into two sections: pre-stroke and post-stroke. There are two tenses: remote-experienced “past” and proximate-experienced “present.” There are two versions of perceived time: forward-moving in chronology and arrested or “frozen in time.” And there are black-and-white dialectic themes: successes and limitations, health and illness, expectations and disappointments. The entire text exists within divisions, as represented in both its content and form, on both the micro and macro levels.

And so, thus, is Amos himself—as the narrator of this text and experiencer of the story. He is divided literally, as his body is limited but his mind is fully intact. He is divided figuratively, as his text shows his vacillations between past and present, health and illness, ability and disability. He is divided physically, mentally, and emotionally. He is divided in his self-perception, uncertain whether to focus on his past successes or his current limitations.

With all this in mind, employing a final, macro-focused view on Amos’s life story, we nonetheless found pieces of evidence that suggest a slight “tipping of the discursive scale” toward a positive outlook on his life, both past and present. The first “clue” lies toward the end of his story, where Amos, discussing his limitations and need for assistance, stated, “And this is how I go through my life” (49-50). While the sentence appears, at first glance, rather dismal—and indeed, is followed by Amos’s pronouncement that he doesn’t “have much more than that now” (50)—it is significant that the phrasing is active, rather than passive. He could have said, “And this is how my life goes,” or “And this is how life is for me.” Instead, Amos made the discursive decision to place himself as the active agent. No matter how difficult and disappointing his current way of life may be, here Amos still seems to see himself as actively going through it, rather than passively having it pass him by.

Secondly, Amos’s statement that, “That’s my life. Always in public affairs” (54-55) sends the message that his real life, and his perception of his life overall, exists in the active, accomplished, successful realm. No matter what has happened since, his self-image is positioned firmly in that life. Thirdly, Amos made an unusual discursive choice where he mused, “these days I go back and forth between thinking that I’m healthy and the future, that I’m limited” (45-47). Although he did not actually employ the future tense, his use of the phrase, “the future,” may reflect his grappling with the scope of his current limitations, both in physical space and time. In terms of Tobin’s (1989b) Space-Time-Existence system, the phrase can be interpreted as Amos’s reflection on this remote and non-experienced state, and his concern with whether he will still be experiencing these disabilities in the remote future.

Finally, and related to Amos’s struggle with the dynamics of disability and time, analytical attention must be called to his essentially final concluding sentence: “I was limited, mostly the walking limited me” (58-59). There appears to be a dissonance here, wherein Amos presents his final message about his life, but uses the remote-experienced “past,” rather than the proximate-experienced “present” tense. His entire discussion of his current limitations and disabilities exists in the extended proximate “present”—and yet, here he chooses the remote-past tense. The grammatical construction stands out, and thus sends a very specific message. Amos is decidedly situating his limitation in the past, either out of wishful thinking (perhaps he hopes his physical condition might change?) or a desire not to allow this extended disabled state to define his current life. Indeed, the literature on “illness narratives” suggests that a narrator’s social experience is essentially embodied in one’s experience of and feelings about one’s bodily states and how they appear to external others. Kleinman (1988) states, “at the very core of complaints is a tight integration between physiological, psychological, and social meanings” (p. 14). All of the discursive “clues” in Amos’s narrative text seem to illustrate his inability or unwillingness to own the full extent of his disability, particularly if this comes at the price of disregarding the positive, active, successful facets of his pre-stroke life. Indeed, the stroke may have changed his present abilities, but has not and cannot change his identity as quintessentially able. Thus, despite his current disappointments, we view Amos as showing a great deal of resilience and strength in his life story.

One of the strengths of the interdisciplinary method demonstrated in this paper lies in its multi-dimensionality and comprehensive, integrative perspective. When viewed again through Lieblich, Tuval- Mashiach, and Zilber’s (1998) four-celled matrix of modes of reading a narrative, we can classify this analytical process as involving all four cells at different points. The holistic-content mode helped us to find the three thematic oppositions, while the holistic-form mode revealed the larger structural oppositions in the narrative, such as the pre- vs. post-stroke partition and the use of certain phrases as textual turning points. The opposition between chronologically forward-moving vs. arrested phrasing in the text can be viewed as representative of both the categorical-content and categorical-form modes, as it spiraled between what Amos said in his narrative and how he said it. And of course, the first four oppositions emerged primarily from a categorical-form mode of analysis, focused on the distribution of specific linguistic forms and meanings within the text.

Perhaps the greatest strength of the sign-oriented linguistic method is that it never strays from the text under analysis. At every point, interpretations and hypotheses remain strictly, intrinsically connected to the patterns uncovered in the words themselves. In this deep loyalty and direct connection to what is said lies the central possible criticism—that our method does not necessarily overtly analyze what is not said in the text. Because it focuses on the non-random distribution of the concrete linguistic data that is physically present, it does not place interpretive emphasis on hypotheses regarding what is not present, or what may appear only once in the text—unless this absence or underrepresentation creates a distinct and significant communicative opposition to what is present. For instance, Amos’s wife’s single comment in the middle of his story about their meeting was not analyzed or related to, as there was no distributional pattern to speak of. Had Amos chosen to include her in his narrative, or had she made a series of interruptions, analytical attention would have been paid to her discourse, as it would then have been possible to find linguistic patterns and relate them to the extra-linguistic text messages.

Although Amos’s life story has a number of notable absences and lacks of elaboration (such as regarding his family of origin and his current nuclear family), the field of sign-oriented linguistics simply has no technical theoretical tools with which to interpret this lack of language. Other than noting whether these absences may have a significant, systematic contextual pattern relevant to, or thematically consistent with, the extra-linguistic message, this method only pays theoretical attention to a systematic zero distribution. Although the basic analytical question asking, “How could this have been said differently?” may touch upon unspoken subjects or underemphasized themes, the linguistic side of the method does not specifically seek out silences or omissions that are neither systematically presented nor thematically relevant to the extra- linguistic message. We recognize that silences, in both content and form, are most certainly important from the socio-psychological perspective, however, and the absences in Amos’s text may be interpreted as significant in this view. Furthermore, if we had had access to the original voice recording of Amos’s interview, we would have analyzed the additional paralinguistic and prosodic information, such as the length of pauses between words, the tone in which certain words were spoken, and emotionality clues (e.g., chuckling, crying, or intakes of breath).

Another strength of this method is its applicability. Any text can be analyzed using these techniques, and linguistic meanings and extra- linguistic messages can be unearthed and proposed in any textual context. Non-random distribution exists in every instance of language used by human beings to communicate, no matter how brief or seemingly unimportant. Indeed, sign-oriented text analysis has been applied in many theses and dissertations to discourse of all styles and registers, in both spoken and written form, across many languages—from literary and poetic texts to fortune-telling sessions, from political speeches to Six Day War stories, from kibbutz assembly meetings to children’s games, and even in trance parties.

Although the linguistic proponents of this interdisciplinary method see no direct need for reflection on the locationing of the researcher, the psychological, narrative perspective requires it. Particularly because of the inherent “Israeli-ness” of Amos’s text, it seems critical to note that the analysts here are not native to the Israeli culture. Both of the authors of this paper were, in fact, born in the United States—the first author immigrated to Israel in 2003, and the second in 1966. The mother tongue of both is English, although both are now fluent speakers of Hebrew.

The primary analyst of Amos’s text, in fact, sees herself as very much an outsider to the country and culture that permeates nearly every facet of Amos’s life story. She (A.S.P.) knows little to nothing about much of the Sabra ethos that fills Amos’s text, and has no direct knowledge or understanding of the significance of the Palmach, other than having read about it in textbooks. All of the “name-dropping” in which Amos painstakingly engaged—the A. D. Gordon Beit Chinuch, the Machanot Olim, the Hachsharas, all of his army units—simply had no meaning to her. As she conducted the analysis, she was able to recognize that Amos was making repeated efforts to specifically name these institutions, and from there, to propose a hypothesis that these symbolized important milestones and accomplishments for him—but the inherent cultural significance was entirely lost on her. Indeed, a deeper look at the analysis put forth here shows a conspicuous silence on the topic of Amos as a member of the Sabra generation and ethos. Only upon reflection after the fact, and after hearing the analyses done by the other authors of this special issue, did she even notice this absence at all.

However, the second author of this paper is only 22 years younger than Amos, spent the majority of his life in Israel, and has both native- born children and grandchildren. He (Y.T.) was a “graduate” of the same socialist Zionist pioneering youth movement as Amos; served as a soldier in the kibbutzim branch of the Israeli army (considered the continuation of the pre-State Palmach); is a veteran of the Six Day War; and was a member of the first group to establish a new army-kibbutz settlement. The pioneering kibbutz of which he was a member was, in fact, founded by men and women of Amos’s generation, for whom he has a profound admiration and understanding, and with whom he identifies strongly. He sees himself as having adopted much of the values system intrinsic to Amos’s generation, and thus feels a connection with and sense of belonging to it. Therefore, he was able to both identify with Amos’s life story and “‘double-check” the analysis from a cultural view, finding nothing lacking from a sign-oriented analytical perspective.

Ultimately, this reflection serves to highlight another of our method’s strengths—that is, its applicability not only across texts but across analysts. One need not be an insider of the culture or society involved in a text, and one need not have intimate knowledge of the narrator’s stories or experiences. A sign-oriented linguistic analyst must simply stay deeply and uncompromisingly connected with the text under analysis, and the linguistic meanings and extra-linguistic messages will thus emerge intrinsically. Indeed, upon our first reading of Amos’s text, both authors immediately remarked upon the splits throughout the narrative, which were both categorical and holistic and which existed in both content and form. Amos’s divided text indeed reflected his identity as a divided man—literally (physically, cognitively, and emotionally), figuratively, and textually.

Alison Stern Perez, MA, is a PhD student in Social Psychology at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Israel. Her work focuses on the interplay between individual and societal discourse, and the influence of this relationship on coping and resilience after a traumatic event; and she employs an interdisciplinary methodology based on socio-psychological qualitative discourse analysis and sign-oriented linguistics. She has published five articles on her research.

Yishai Tobin, PhD, is a professor in the Department of Foreign Literatures & Linguistics and the Department of Behavioral Sciences at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Israel. He is author and editor of 17 books and over 200 articles in the fields of developmental and clinical phonetics and phonology, discourse and text analysis, and semiotics. He is editor of the series Studies in Functional and Structural Linguistics at John Benjamins Publishing Company and serves on the editorial boards of several international linguistics journals. His research reflects a cognitive and functional approach to language as a system of signs used by humans to communicate.