The Nuclear Threat: Its Impact on psychoanalytic Conceptualizations
Martin Wangh, M.D. 
(1986). psychoanalytic Inquiry, 6:251-266

In the last room of the lowest floor of the Prado, in Madrid, in what almost constitutes an underground shelter, hangs an ominous painting by Francisco Goya y Lucientes. Two giants are swinging enormous clubs at each other while they seem to be sinking more and more deeply into the mire in which they stand. The entire scene is velied by fog. A prophetic representation, indeed, of our present world situation: The two superpowers threatening to engage in a war that may well bring about the end of the human species — and of much of the present biosphere in a blanketing nuclear winter.
What is the human, psychic reaction to such a threat? What effect does this menace have on the differentiations of the mind postulated by psychoanalysis? The experience of the Nazi Holocaust has given us a foretaste of the answers to these questions.
Hillel Klein (1983p. 123), who was himself a survivor of the Nazi camps, wrote about the loss of differentiation in psychic structure during life in the camps. “Intrapsychic conflicts … were … characteristically diminished in the face of real danger … [under] the pressure of having to answer existential questions with life or death consequences for self and family.”
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Dr. Wangh is Training Analyst, New York psychoanalytic Institute; Clinical Professor of Psychiatry, Emeritus, Albert Einstein College of Medicine of Yeshiva University, New York; and currently lives in Jerusalem where he is on the faculty of the Israel psychoanalytic Society and Institute and Visiting Scholar at the Freud Center of the Hebrew University.

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Terence des Pres (1977p. 183), an author steeped in the vast literature on survival under the conditions in Stalin’s and Hitler’s death camps, puts it more bluntly: “The purpose of actions in extremity is to keep life going; the multiplicity of motive which gives civilized behavior its depth and complexity is lost.” Des Pres’s book contains many examples to demonstrate that ultimately only personal, biological persistence is what counted. I myself heard a similar statement from one of the last survivors of the Lodz Ghetto. He was among 26 left to serve in one of the clean-up commandos. He succeeded in escaping after having seen first his father then his sisters and mother taken away for the transport to death. With great hesitation I dared to ask him: how did he feel then? He shrugged and said, “All that mattered was to stay alive.” That his reaction was not unusual is confirmed by what was written in the official diary of the Lodz Ghetto; the writers note a constantly increasing indifference to each other’s fates (Dobroski, 1984).1
In what follows, drawing upon the insights garnered from the experience of the Nazi Holocaust, I suggest that the explanatory effectiveness of Freud’s Thanatos/Eros theory be reappraised. Living under the persistent threat of extinction through a nuclear holocaust shifts explanatory values from the structural theory to the more reductive, more biologically rooted postulate of a state of unstable equilibrium between death drive and life drive. It was under the impact of the mutual slaughter of World War I (25 million dead) that Freud (1920) formulated the Eros-Thanatos theory. It is under the current imminent danger of the realization of total human extinction that this theory seems to find its empirical confirmation.
Normally, individual life proceeds finely balanced between the forces of Eros and Thanatos, with Eros prevailing, at least for a time. We evade awareness of Thanatos — an inner drive toward death — mostly by thought isolation or denial. We could not function if the expectation of dying were continuously part of our consciousness. But these very defenses against a sense of transience
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1 This general tendency, does not of course, preclude the fact that there were among the victims of the Nazi terror many individuals whose self-sacrifice for the sake of others and whose heroic resistance reached sublime heights.

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have been undermined by the advent of the atomic bomb. Suddenly such “fantasies of world destruction” have become realizable; and day by day we are moving forward toward total extinction. Sensing this, we are living with an increasingly higher level of anxiety. Many often quite contradictory behavior patterns are attempts to cope with this ever-augmenting tension. Denial is the most prominent of them.
Max Stern, in addition to those analysts who have followed Melanie Klein, has maintained that there is an innate potential for the representation of death within us. He (1983) cites many child analysts to the effect that at approximately the same time that a child begins to ask how life comes about, it is also curious about death.
In fact, even at his most reflective, when Man overcomes his avoidance of the thought of death, he always finds ways to mitigate the contemplation of transience. All religious mythologies, all artistic creativity, and last but not least, seeing oneself in one’s offspring guarantee a transcendental survival — from here to eternity.
However, while denial of the imminence of death seems to be a functionally necessary and self-preservative mechanism, its mobilization to an excess may bring about the very disaster it seeks to stave off. Laqueur (1982) gives a most painful example. The 400,000 Jews compressed into the Warsaw Ghetto, although warned of their peril by hearing of the deaths of thousands of Jews in Vilna and subsequently of still more in the still nearer Chelmno, denied that there was danger to them. They convinced themselves that only those Jews who had been Communists were murdered by the Nazis. “This is Warsaw,” they reasoned, “in the center of Europe; there are 400,000 Jews in the Ghetto, a liquidation on this scale is surely impossible.” Laqueur believes that were it not for the depth and extent of this denial, a good many of the Warsaw Ghetto inhabitants might have had some chance to save themselves — although, we might add, they might also have committed suicide. Further, we must consider that the denial exercised by the Warsaw Jews also implied the idea: “they can’t do this to us — even though they hate us, they are still possessed of human empathy.”

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As the projection of part of ourselves onto an image, a ghost, a creative piece of work, or even our offspring eternalizes us, so does projection upon someone else humanize the recipient of this projection. Through the projection onto the other, the outsider still remains another human being, someone “like me,” for whom it is possible to have empathy and from whom mercy (i.e., compassion, empathy) might be expected. Fleischhauer and Klein (1978) argue that even the projection of hostile reactions and feelings onto the object, the remainder of an early, symbiotic mother-child relationship, bespeaks human bonding.
Eros and Thanatos are ever present, but optimally they hold each other in balance. Eros even draws some aggressive strength from the energy of Thanatos, a strength that helps to fulfill Eros’ aim of self-and-species-perpetuation. Clinically, we observe the two drives only as an amalgam. With the term ambivalence, which describes the oscillation between love and hate, we acknowledge the permanence of this dualism.
Lifton (1983) recently told of his interviews with 20 or more ex-Nazi doctors. According to him, they could be loving at home, while utterly ruthless toward their experimental victims. These “Doctors of Infamy,” as Mitscherlich (1969) had called them, according to Lifton, used “splitting” (Lifton prefers “doubling”) as their principal mechanism of defense. However, it seems to me that in their attitude toward their “experimental” objects, they went further. They did not act because they continued to hate their experimental objects. The experimenting on their victims was a “cool” act. They had dehumanized their victims, but in order to do so, they had to dehumanize themselves. This dehumanizing mechanism characterized the Nazis generally.
Dehumanization goes beyond the projection of inner evil onto an enemy. Empathy must not occur. But such a complete break of bonding to another human being is not easily accomplished. To achieve it, the Nazis had to train their people for years by threats and close surveillance. Even then the psychiatric casualty rate among the select Einsatz Gruppen who had been gunning down the Jews of Chelmno and elsewhere, en masse, was high: 20 percent. This

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fact, they said, accelerated the installation of the gas ovens, which were preferably serviced by criminals or non-Germans or by the hapless concentration camp inmates, themselves (Lifton, 1983).
Seeking a Final Solution to the Jewish Problem was so extraordinary a goal because the complete erasure of the enemy leads to the end of projective defense and hence to an absence of self-empathy; it returns Thanatos to the original self-directed position. Bernard et al., (1965) state: “Dehumanization … entails a decrease in a person’s sense of his own individuality and his perception of the humanness of other people.”
We know this not only from Hitler’s own suicide in the rubble of Berlin but from earlier war incidents as well. Here is what one survivor of such German self-destruction told me: Until November 27, 1944, the nonindustrial town of Freiburg im Breisgau had been essentially untouched by the war. When the Nazis maintained an intense cannonade against the little town of Hagenau in Alsace-Lorraine the Allies delivered an ultimatum: “Either you stop your firing on Hagenau or this evening at 7:45 P.M. we shall destroy Freiburg by aerial bombardment.” In response, the Nazi leaders ordered all the nearby party members about whose political loyalty they had some doubt to assemble in Freiburg. The Nazi officers themselves celebrated the evening Valhalla style, with a champagne party in a luxurious villa. At 7:45 P.M., when the party was at its height, the expected attacks began. Within 20 minutes approximately 24,000 people were killed and the whole center of the town was completely destroyed. The Nazis, having abandoned all sense of mercy, broke the link between Eros and Thanatos; self-destruction was the logical result. There seemed to have been no sense of guilt associated with this incident, nor in the case of Hitler and his companions, nor in that of Goering, when he committed suicide during the time of his trial in Nuremberg.
Up to now, warfare always required dehumanization of the enemy soldier, as well as the “soldier sons.” They were the aggressors, as well as the ones to be sacrificed. Rascovsky (1973) called warfare a “selective filicide.” By this division, the rest of the citizens can remain relatively guiltless and unscathed. Hence, soon after the end

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of the mutual slaughter in a conventional war, a reconciliation becomes possible. The return to an amalgam between Eros and Thanatos can be quickly achieved. Peace can be reestablished. This has been the rhythmic repetition with which mankind has lived over the millenia. But under present conditions, when the reign of destruction falls upon total populations, the dehumanization previously reserved for the soldier becomes all inclusive: the soldier-sons and civilians share the same fates. Defensive compartmentalization can no longer be sustained. Carl Sagan (1983) and a group of 40 scientists (Sullivan, 1983) have hypothesized that all of humanity and much of the biosphere would perish in a nuclear winter — a result of smoke suspended in the stratosphere after a massive nuclear bombing of the industrialized world’s major cities.
Recent wars have been characterized by an escalation of the dehumanization of the enemy. It is true that whole populations have been ruthlessly destroyed before, but some form of compulsion to “undo” usually went along. In New Guinea, perpetual wars between some tribes included having the ghost of the slain enemy become a protecting house god. The ancient Greeks expressed their awe for their Trojan adversary by eternalizing him in magnificent poetry. These signs of bonding give evidence of the victor’s continuing empathy with his victim. The Nazis sought to evade such a psychological burden by first diabolizing and then dehumanizing their unarmed, totally defenseless victims, “Jews, Gypsies, and other such vermin.” The available technology for the mechanization of mass killings facilitated their task. What must be kept in the forefront of our minds is that despite some inner resistance, the Nazis succeeded in dehumanizing themselves while prompting the dehumanization of their victims.
Dehumanization is a reverberating process. When the other is represented only as a “target,” an “industrial complex,” an “emplacement,” or even a “population center” — in short, as an inanimate abstraction, empathy need not be activated. Hence, no brake exists in the dimension of aggression. The radio communication between the Russian pilot who shot down the Korean airliner is a case in point. At 18:25, 11 sec. he reported: “I am closing on the target.”

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At 18:26, 20 sec.: “I have executed launch.” At 18:26, 22 sec.: “The target is destroyed” (New York Times, 1983ap. 1). When the pilot was later interviewed on Soviet television and was asked how he felt about shooting down the airliner, he answered: “It is difficult to talk of my emotions at that moment … I had a specific task assigned to me … a military task, which is the meaning of my life” (italics added) (New York Times, 1983b, p. A16). So can a nuclear catastrophe be triggered off, without inhibition, by dehumanized men — men robots — of both sides.
What Freud (1930p. 145) wrote at the end of “Civilization and its Discontents” has become a reality: “Men have gained control over the forces of nature to such an extent that … they would have no difficulty in exterminating one another to the last man. They know this and hence comes a large part of their current unrest, their unhappiness and their mood of anxiety.”
Since the time these words were written, the level of general anxiety has risen vastly. In the sixties, our adolescents — always the seismographic sensors of their time — demonstrated this in their rebellion, in their actions and verbalizations. They spoke out against de-individualization and dehumanization, against the pollution of the environment, and above all against war. What they were not fully conscious of was that their agitation grew in large measure out of the anxiety experienced earlier when as children they were exposed to the imaged and imagined effect of an atomic war. They recall how they were made to duck under tables or hide in cellars in shelter exercises in school, while they were separated from their parents. On film and on TV they saw the mushroom cloud and the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Their government urged their parents to build shelters in their back yards; and they witnessed parental and pastoral debates over whether or not it was moral to take a gun with you into your shelter to keep out an intruding neighbor (Wangh, 1981).
In 1970, in the course of preparing a paper on some unconscious factors in the testgenesis of recent student uprisings (Wangh, 1972), I asked Berta Bornstein, “What did the children you analyzed during the postwar years report to you about their fears, anxieties,

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fantasies about an atomic war?” She replied: “I cannot recall anything about that.” Then, after a thoughtful silence, she added: “Maybe I could not hear anything about that.” I put the same question to Marianne Kris and to Sylvia Brody, other respected child analysts. They gave me similar replies. I later sent out reprints of my paper to all the members of the American psychoanalytic Association, together with the question: “What did you hear during testtherapeutic sessions about fears of a nuclear war?” No one reported any spontaneous discussion by patients in the dyadic treatment situation on the subject of the atomic bomb threat. Yet, one of our colleagues confessed “that she herself had seen to it that her children got strontium-90-free milk at the times of surface nuclear testing. And a neighbor had earnestly planned to move his family for safety sake to a remote part of South America.”
In contrast to this apparent absence of the theme in the dyadic therapeutic situation stands the research conducted by Escalona (1963). Her team asked 211 New York City school children, “What do you think the world will be like 10 years from now?” Some 70 percent answered pessimistically: the tone of their responses can be summarized in the reply of one child: “If there will be a world.” And high school student newspapers of the time cynically warned: “Poems about a nuclear catastrophe are no longer accepted.” (Liebert, 1972).
I (1982) later quoted from interviews with three young women, who were 11 years old at the time of surface nuclear tests. They clearly recalled their anxiety, during and after these tests, and similar recall emerged in group discussions with younger colleagues to whom I presented the Student Uprisings paper.
So we have two sharply contrasting findings: silence about the nuclear threat in the dyadic treatment situation but clear recall of nuclear-surface-test anxiety in direct interviews and group discussions. Furthermore, I reported on two cases from my psychoanalytic practice when the analysis was temporarily interrupted with the overt appearance of fears about the nuclear bomb. In one case, the fear of nuclear war led the patient to actual flight from the city and thereby from analysis. The patient and her whole clan hid for

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the entire week of the Cuban missile crisis in their mountain home with its shelter. When, on her return, I questioned her about her absence, she expressed doubts about my good sense and that of my whole profession. “You analysts live in the clouds,” she declared. Unable to see me as a potential protector, she had sought safety in the bosom of the family.
In the second case, interrupting behavior occurred after a pivotal dream, the associations to which revolved around shelter exercises in Kingergarten and the film “On the Beach.” (In both cases the father’s work was connected to the armament industry, which may have been an idiosyncratic stimulant augmenting contemporary fears about a nuclear war.) In the second case, when I overcame my own reluctance to picking up the theme of fear about the nuclear bomb and commented on it, what happened? The next day the patient first refused to lie down on the couch: she sat opposite me and stared at me for quite a while, without saying a word.
Seeking and finding a sense of security within the group is probably what enabled each participant in the group sessions to recollect and, in measure, reexperience fears felt during obligatory school shelter exercises. Yet in group sessions also resistances developed, showing themselves, for instance, in jocularity or gang hostility against me, their group leader. But fortunately I could usually count on some support from among the members of the group. But where and when can the testanalyst in isolation find support when he follows his patient’s utterly desolate mood evoked by contemplation of nuclear annihilation? The testanalyst’s empathic soundings of other anxiety-arousing experiences are usually directed toward past events, against which safety can be found by a return to current reality. We imply to our patients, “Yet we are both here, we have both survived a past danger and are now sound and safe.” But against a future danger the testanalyst cannot offer such reassurance. Though his own analysis may have strengthened his tolerance for anxiety and depression, his isolated position behind the couch may augment his very potential for empathic desolation were his patient to immerse himself in contemplation of a nuclear holocaust. Menaced by this, the testanalyst joins the rest

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of humanity in its defense by avoidance and/or denial. Hence he resists picking up clues of such an affective state. A scrutiny of the contents of most of the official psychoanalytic journals reveals this very reluctance.
How difficult it is, even for “well-analyzed” people to sustain a nonviolent antinuclear stance in public confrontations is well illustrated by the essays in a book recently published in Germany (Horn & Senghaas-Knobloch, 1983). These “fighters” against nuclear armament describe their “battle fatigue” resulting from the exposure to the indifference and ridicule of their co-burghers and the manipulations of the authorities.
More recently, I (Wangh, 1983) expressed the view that the apparent increase in narcissistic behavioral phenomenology found in today’s Western World (Lasch, 1978) is a sign of a defensive retreat in the face of anxiety, a retreat not limited to the youth of society; its signs can be found in people of all ages. Both heightened preoccupation with self-preservation and the belief that a future for mankind has diminished are to be found throughout the world. These trends are reflected in the immense expansion of psychoanalytic literature on the subject of narcissism.
We live today with a heightened level of anxiety. Its source, the fear of nuclear extinction, has been kept out of consciousness, often if only by means of displacement onto issues which ultimately may seem more manageable. Overpopulation, automatization, pollution of the environment, etc. have been proposed as being the basic source of general dis-ease. Yet all these problems, given time, lend themselves to adaptation, both psychological and biological. We introduce more effective methods of birth control, shorten working hours, take steps to reduce pollution. But to the pollution produced by a nuclear war, biology can find no means of adaptation. Freud (1940p. 150) said it almost half a century ago: “Thus it may in general be suspected that the individual dies of his internal conflicts but that the species dies of its unsuccessful struggle against the external world if the latter changes in a fashion which cannot be adequately dealt with by the adaptations which the species has acquired.” To the contrary, our scientists predict only worse consequences

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than have been thought of heretofore. The Soviet-American agreement of 1963, which prohibited surface nuclear testing and allowed only underground testing, helped for a time to push the thought of the extinction peril underground; it helped “repression.” But now we must recognize that the policy of deterrence, together with the greater accumulation of nuclear warheads promoted under this very cover of underground testing, has served only to increase the mutual terror. Denial has become less and less tenable. Fortunately, the generation of the sixties, being also the generation of the postwar baby boom, is beginning to have a strong voice in the industrialized societies of the world. Having been the first generation sensitized by the threat of world destruction, it faces the issue more squarely than the older generation. That generation, possibly fascinated by the phallic potency of the mushroom cloud, still follows an oedipal concept of war, where there is a winner, or at least the belief that its dead heroes’ deeds will be sung forever by a grateful nation of survivors.
I suggest that our present anxiety about an imminent threat of extinction through a nuclear holocaust lead us to give preference to Freud’s reductive, dual instinct theory (1920), which postulates that the persistence of life depends on the maintenance of an equilibrium between Eros and Thanatos. Under conditions of great stress the defensive maneuvers of denial and dehumanization fail in their life-preserving function. To the contrary, they open the path for eventual extinction in a nuclear war.
The reduction to undifferentiated psychological structuring under the extremities of the Nazi Holocaust, and the current highly charged preoccupation with self and self-preservation provoked by the threat of human extinction make Freud’s Eros-Thanatos theory a most convincing explicatory formulation. At present, the drive toward death seems to be barely held in balance by desperate and disparate efforts to assert Eros’ temporary prevalence over Thanatos. The directives given by the two major opposing regimes (which, after all, express major trends in the popular will) seem to be signposts of a drive toward human self-destruction.
I believe that the enormity of the threat under which we live

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has pushed psychoanalytic theoretical thinking itself back to the baseline of the duality of Thanatos and Eros, and that the technological advances in the potential for the dehumanization of ourselves and of our adversaries is the facilitator of Thanatos’ progress.
Ever since the publication of “Inhibition, Symptoms and Anxiety” (Freud, 1926), the concept of anxiety has occupied the center of psychic dynamics in Freudian explanatory thinking. Anxiety, initially a testphysical, diffuse discharge phenomenon in the infant, in the course of ontological development becomes a signal for an impending danger. It mobilizes the organism to act in order to ward off a danger. Strangely, the organism may erase the signal itself, presumably in order to avoid an overreaction, which might increase the danger. In short, the aim of most of our defensive maneuvers is to repress the signal itself. Our present new situation, however, makes us advocate a seemingly paradoxical way to proceed. As I have argued before (Wangh, 1982), in order to be aroused to undertake decisive steps for humanity’s protection, it is necessary that we face and maintain a sense of the actuality of the threat, even if facing this very anxiety runs so much counter to the vital need to deny the ever-present impulsion toward death within ourselves.
It is only if we know what is going on within ourselves that we can help others to overcome the resistance and defenses that anxiety evokes. We, as analysts, must be willing to experience the depths of our own anxiety about a drive toward death in whatever form it might exist within us; whether as outward-directed aggression, sexual masochism, or moral masochism. We must know the extent of our own vengeful wishes, of our envy and our greed. Only then can we come to understand sufficiently the feelings and political moods of the Russians, Germans, French, or Americans, with which they come to the negotiating table. Fornari (1974), our late Italian colleague, exhorts us to accept the inclination toward Thanatos within us and come to grasp how our unconscious sense of guilt might provoke another, an outsider, an enemy to become the executant of punishment. We must persistently face the message, “Yes, it is possible

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that Man can walk the path toward a total Holocaust, that he can dehumanize himself and thereby others, and, in consequence, mutual extinction is possible.”
I am skeptical about the idea that a “new morality,” a new command to love each other is needed to reestablish the balance between the life- and death drives, an idea derived from Freud’s (1933) stress on mobilizing the force of Eros. I am equally skeptical about the idea that our salvation depends on finding and exposing the “Eichmanns” of current times.
That remarkable document on nuclear war published by the Catholic Bishops of America (see The N. Y. Review, 1983), with its absolute stand against the use of nuclear weapons, bases its argument on the love of God for humanity. Brilliant as it is, the Catholic Bishops’ letter remains limited, however, because it relies on ethics.
Ethics, religious ideology, the superego—all represent secondary formations in the evolution of society and of man. If, as we know, some of the cruelest wars of the past have occurred in the name of morality, would a “new morality,” then, do better? We who subscribe to the scientism of our time must approach the problem on more primary, biological grounds. Monod (1971), a Nobel French biologist, states it simply when he writes that the persistence of any biological species is dictated by its biological genetic code, which is neither moral nor amoral. The aim of life is to replicate—an aim that is basic for all biological processes. The psychoanalytic concept of the need for an equilibrium between Thanatos and Eros, the life-promoting and life-extending tendencies within us, is consonant with this aim.
When plain biological survival are predominant issues, then questions of morality, the finer “shoulds” and “should nots” of social intercourse, become muted. While in our daily psychoanalytic practice we must still proceed with the examination of inner conflicts as these rise toward the surface, we must at the same time keep an ear open to the signs of fragility of this structuring under the pressure of the underlying generalized anxiety state in which all of modern society lives.
On the deepest level of anxiety, only a reductive, computerlike

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yes/no circuitry seems to count. “To be or not to be—that is the question,” a question that can only be answered in the simple terms of a biological imperative. Living in the post-Hiroshima world, Anna Freud (1965p. 132) placed the fear of annihilation at the base line of all anxiety.
My thesis has been that the profoundly shocking impact of the nuclear threat alone, which evokes the fear of total extinction, diminishes the value of the concept of the tripartite, structural differentiation of the human mind in favor of the more reductive formulation of an Eros-Thanatos duality. When destruction of the rival—hitherto always seen through oedipal lenses—means also immediate self-destruction, when there can be no experience of victorious survival, neither one’s own nor one’s offspring, mutual castration is complete. When the Manichaean division into “absolute good” and “absolute evil” leaves no one to make such judgments, the superego concept becomes superfluous. When not only humans, but all organisms through whom we might see ourselves symbolically represented—those beings who also propagate by sexual conjugation—when even their survival cannot be eternalized in any convincing fashion, then Man’s imagination is faced with Daseins Angst, the existential anxiety of which Heidegger (v. Adler-Vonessen, 1971) spoke.
What life-sustaining concepts can testanalysts offer against this wall of gloom?
Human evolution has not only made us capable of upsetting the biological, bipolarity of death and life through releasing the astrophysical force of fusion, it has also equipped us with awareness. This extends Man’s mnemonic and anticipatory power. Man’s present biological and science-based guard against the self-erasure of the species lies in his ability to predict.
Reiser recently (1983) told us that there is reason to assume that learning and experience lay down bases for new, organic changes in the neuronal transmitter system which can produce long-lasting behavioral changes. Upon such facts, then, rests our hope that a modification in the strength of the self-destructive drive can be achieved. Memories of dehumanization such as the Nazi Holocaust

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must be kept alive to help us resist the Thanatos within ourselves. We must practice self-exploration. We must recognize and expose to our consciousness the destructive tendencies within ourselves and seek to understand how past experiences have reinforced and prompted them. We must anticipate and remain alert to the consequences of their release. We must learn to live with our anxiety, which alerts us, and thus permits control. Only when we do this, can we speak knowledgeably and effectively to our fellow men and help them and ourselves to perpetuate the biological dictate to “Be fruitful and multiply”2 (Jacob, 1982p. 168).
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2 See also Genesis 1:28.
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Article Citation [Who Cited This?]
Wangh, M. (1986). The Nuclear Threat: Its Impact on psychoanalytic Conceptualizations. testanal. Inq., 6:251-266