Dr. Gwen Adshead
Consultant Psychiatrist, Traumatic Stress Clinic, Camden &
Islington MHT, and Consultant Forensic Psychotherapist, Broadmoor
Hospital, West London MHT
Download this article as a PDF file
Information about viewing PDF documents
with Adobe Acrobat
'A capacity for good and a capacity for evil are one and the
same capacity. To realise the good, dispositions are
necessary'
St. Thomas Aquinas
I start with this quote from Aquinas because I want to examine
what psychology and psychiatry might have to tell us about the
problem of evil. They have little to say about the classic problems
of evil: how God allows evil to exist in a loving, good and godly
world; nor about the distinction between human and natural evils,
nor the problem of free will. But it seems to me that the concept
of 'dispositions' might link with psychological capacities for of
thinking, feeling, believing and acting.
So I want to look at the mental dispositions that make evil
possible and I am going to do this by concentrating on the
experience of those who have done evil things; what they say about
them and what others say about them. I want to use what I have
learnt from those who tread the Via Dolorosa; and I want to start
by acknowledging their part in my moral education. I am also
grateful to my colleagues in forensic psychiatry and psychotherapy
for giving me the time to talk about these things
What is evil? Noun or Adjective?
Defining evil seems to be very difficult, and I will only touch
on a few themes here. I have been very influenced by the work of
Mary Midgley (1984). Midgley emphasizes the complexity of our lives
and our decisions, what she calls 'the unevenness and conflict
of our motives'. At this point, I would also add the term,
'coherence', and perhaps more importantly 'incoherence', when
thinking about how people make choices. I wonder to what extent
evil is associated with a type of psychological incoherence in
terms of living out our narratives, and I shall come back to say
more about this.
I was asked recently whether psychiatry repudiated the notion of
'evil' as non- scientific or 'mediaeval'. I believe the questioner
was thinking about the effect of Freud and the post-Freudians on
our understanding of the mind; the analytic view that all our
choices are determined by our mental life, and are meaningful, even
if not all conscious. On this basis, evil does not exist as a noun:
it is an action that arises from unconscious guilt, or the need for
pleasure, or an unconscious destructiveness.
Richard Worsley (1996) a priest and counsellor, argues for evil
as a consequence of human freedom. Human evil is a matter of
choice, but destructive choice: a 'destructiveness of
imperfection or excess' (p144). For Worsley, Melanie Klein's
account of the development of the personality in terms of
relationships with others offers a fruitful way to think about
evil. If evil represents a failure of agency, it must do so as
agency arises from the personality. Such a failure of agency
indicates a disruption of relationships in early life and
personality development. Klein's concept of the paranoid-schizoid
position facilitates the commission of evil because unspeakable
affects (the term I use) or perhaps the Shadow, to use Carl Jung's
term) are projected out into another and then related to in a way
which is ultimately disconnecting from others - a type of
autism.
Evil as an interpersonal phenomenon
When looking at the literature on evil, we return to the same
themes repeatedly. Evil seems to be related to the good
intrinsically, yet is it the opposite of good or something much
more than this, having a life of its own? Opinions vary about
whether it is a negative, a 'not-state', or something more actual
in its own right.
I take the view that evil has an interpersonal quality; that we
recognize evil because of its impact on us as persons with feelings
and choices. Our state of mind, in response to something done or
witnessed, tells us something about whether we consider the state
of mind of the actor to be 'evil'. Destructiveness will often be a
part of this; cruelty, deliberateness and disdain for distress also
seem to be key features of an 'evil' state of mind.
I think that disconnectedness and alienation are crucial to the
evil state of mind; this reminds me of Paul Tillich's (1951)
account of unbelief, pride and desire, which then interferes with
our power to be all that we can be. It also seems to me that we are
talking about a failure not so much of the ordinary psychological
self but the moral identity that we aspire to, so that evil makes
us less than we are or can be. We want to be more than we are;
sometimes we have a sense that there is more than the
here-and-now-ness of life, and that we could reach it if we only
knew how, perhaps best described by Wordsworth:
'...something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is
the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living
airand the blue sky, and in the mind of man.'
(Excerpt from Lines composed above Tintern Abbey)
Identity as an interpersonal process
I have always liked the notion that we create a narrative of
ourselves and that the capacity to do this is an enormously complex
one, called by Jeremy Holmes (1992) 'autobiographical competence'.
Three things flow from this for me. First, the construction of a
coherent autobiographical narrative is an on-going process; it is
not a matter of stages. We move from level to level, from
complexity to complexity. We can regress of course, but we can
always elaborate, see it another way.
Second, this construction of an autobiographical narrative is a
group process; subjectivity arises out of the space between us, but
this is the space of the dance of many, not few: the reel and not
the waltz.
Ruth-Ellen Josselson (1996) has perhaps written best about this.
Of course, there may be many different groups which give us
identity: our families, our chosen cultural and ethnic identity,
our professional identities, even gender to the extent we think
this can be chosen or created. However, it seems to me that our
capacity to make choices is part of our identity that is
constructed in relationship not just with our first caregiver but
also with all the caregivers and care-seekers with whom we
relate.
Lastly, I see our moral identity as a particular sort of
'I-ness', which is part of the autobiographical narrative. This
could be linked to notions such as the ego -ideal, or the
super-ego. Whatever the wording, it is hard not to think, as Isaiah
Berlin (1969) suggests, that the splitting of the self into higher
and lower is a profound conceptual development in the Western
history of ideas. Where there is a failure to develop a moral
identity, or in those situations where the moral identity is
undermined, diminished or abandoned, there will be what Midgley
calls ' the empty centre', or as one my patients called it, 'a dark
space'. Perhaps it is a type of nothingness; here is C.S. Lewis's
description:
' Nothing is very strong... strong enough to steal away a
man's best years, not in sweet sins but in a dreary flickering of
the mind over it knows not what and knows not why...'
The Screwtape Letters
'Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first
motion, all the interim is like...a dreadful dream'
Shakespeare: Julius Caesar
It is interesting how many writers and poets have used the
metaphor of light and dark to think about evil, so that evil states
of mind are often associated with a type of inner darkness or
blindness. Certainly there seems to be an important theme of
'not-seeing' aspects of reality that are there to be seen, so that
in an evil state of mind we do not see other people's distress, we
do not see the injuries we do and we do not let ourselves know some
important aspect of experience. This may be why evil has so often
been associated with deception: what Scott Peck called 'people of
the lie'. (1983)
I also think there is something about self-deception here, a
blotting out of sense perception and of affective perception or
empathy. When we do this, we can then be cruel. By not seeing
others as human, we can treat others merely as means to an end. The
most desperate evils of the world seem to me to involve a
deliberate not-seeing of others as human; the reduction of a person
to an abstraction, rather than each one as a spark of the
divine.
In addition to not seeing, we might also add not thinking, a
failure of the empathic imagination. In the Nazi Death Camps, we
know that to ablate that sense of empathy, it took: between 2- 4
bottles of vodka per day (Lifton1986). This tells us something of
the enormity of what needed to be blunted out of consciousness.
Thus the evil state of mind is not just to do with
destructiveness but also with a type of blindness which gives rise
to deception, cruelty and blankness. No wonder people have
commented on the blandness or ordinariness of evil, its monotonous,
boring quality. In these states of mind, there may be little
excitement, but rather a cutting off from experience and a dream
like state.
It therefore seems to me that when we come to contemplate evil,
we are not considering a noun, a force outside ourselves. We are
considering instead an adjective; a descriptor of a way of being, a
state of mind that is interpersonal and in which moral identity is
impaired. I want now to give some accounts of the different ways
the moral identity can fail: whether by development, by choice, by
fear.
Talking to remarkable (evil) men
What is most striking about the people I meet is not that they
are amoral but rather that their accounts of morality are
incoherent. At the heart of the Genesis story is the knowledge of
good and evil, and in the research that I have been doing with
Jonathan Glover we find that type of knowledge and moral reasoning
in people who have done violent things. It is reasoning with gaps,
with inconsistencies and lapses in reasoning fragmented narrative.
And this is like the incoherence of insecure attachment narratives,
which seem to indicate a failure to think at a crucial moment:
' I am afraid to think what I have done.'
Shakespeare: Macbeth
This being afraid to think is itself a type of dissociation from
the reality of the moment. The gaps in experience produce gaps in
the narrative of lived experience so that self-experience becomes
yet more fragmented.
Such dissociation is part of a process that makes evil states of
mind more possible still and induces a false sense of security that
all is well. 'It didn't feel wrong' said one of my
patients, 'but also I didn't care anymore'.
With that lack of caring comes a type of grandiosity and a
certainty about the world. There can even be elation as the anxiety
begins to fade. For a moment, the person can feel like a god such
as Shiva, the destroyer of worlds or, as the Talmud suggests,
'he who destroys one life destroys the world entire'. This
sense of empowerment can be especially important for those
offenders who have profound experiences of being helpless and
humiliated, often (but not exclusively) in childhood.
The breaking up of identity after evil
In Richard III, Shakespeare accurately portrays the breakdown of
the self after evil, so that there is an urgent need to dissociate
further from the part of the self that has done shameful or guilt
inducing things. Shakespeare also shows the collapse of language
after the unspeakable happens. At the beginning of the play,
Richard speaks in faultless prose. By the end of the play, after
the murder of the innocent, his language disintegrates, together
with his sense of identity. With the disappearance of language,
comes the necessity for a somatic solution, a bodily enactment of
what is felt; hence, 'speak, hands, for me'.
If there were more time, I would say more about the failure of
language as an indicator of the failure of autobiographical
competence and how this may be crucial for the management and
expression of dangerous affects. Indeed, there is evidence that the
experience of helplessness and fear affects the part of the brain
that facilitates articulated speech so that people who have both
committed and experienced acts of violence may literally struggle
with a sense that their experience is unspeakable.
How tempting it would be to characterize this as mental illness!
There is no doubt to my mind that for some (perhaps not all) who
have been in evil states of mind, there is suffering after, and
horror; especially where there has been destruction of life. There
are several reports in the literature of traumatic stress reactions
in those who have killed or 'committed atrocities'. The difficulty
with using the language of 'psychosis', or of other types of mental
illnesses is the notion that all who are in an evil state of mind
are 'ill'. If we are speaking existentially, or even spiritually,
then we can use illness as a metaphor for something gone wrong. But
my concern is that if we are not speaking metaphorically, we may
end up saying 'Well, all evil is mental illness'. We might be more
forgiving and less condemnatory, which makes us feel better but we
may miss a sense of agency in the actor, that is to say, his or her
ownership of the evil event and it is that sense of agency that
bothers people afterwards. In my experience, most forensic patients
don't find the language of illness all that helpful, either as an
explanation or an excuse. I shall come back to this.
Ordinary evil
Forensic psychiatry looks at evil deeds at an individual level
and in the context of abnormal mental states. Our patients are
'extraordinary' men and women, often notorious and made special by
their actions. They are then put in a 'special' place. In contrast,
historians and sociologists look at groups and communities of
'ordinary men' who have done evil things. This literature is
essential reading for forensic psychiatrists, just as our work is
essential reading for the sociologists. We need to have dialogue,
as we approach the problem of evil from different perspectives.
Key sources of information for me here have been the Holocaust
literature and associated texts and media; also historians of the
third Reich, and communities affected by Nazi occupation. In these
works we find accounts of the development of the capacity for evil
in men and women, who had not previously been so often or so
completely identified with those states of mind. Forensic patients
may be those who have failed to develop a moral identity. Here, in
this literature, we read accounts of people who abandoned their
moral identity or found it slipping away beneath their feet. Like a
type of dementia, it seems their moral reasoning crumbled
insidiously and subtly over time, the more shocking because not
everyone had this experience and some managed to hold onto a
coherent moral narrative.
What made it possible? Repeated themes emerge. First, group
processes seem important; and also 'antigroup' processes. Antigroup
processes, as described by Nitsun (1994) are those in which a group
acts to deal with rage and hatred in pathological ways. Much the
same mechanisms then can operate at a group level as at individual:
splitting, projection and, most toxic, the idealisation and
denigration that goes with these processes. The idealisation of one
group seems to entail the denigration of another, a perverse
defence against anxiety. Healthy coherence of the group is replaced
with pathologically cohesion (Pines1998). During the Nazi regime,
peer support for doing evil things made it seem 'all right', as
friends colluded in denial. Burleigh (1994) describes how friends
were recruited together deliberately to the department that oversaw
the euthanasia program, and which generated the framework for the
death-camps.
Primo Levi's experiences (1988) are also a fruitful source of
information for understanding evil states of mind. His famous
account of the Camp guard who, when asked why he had assaulted a
prisoner, responded 'There is no why here', gives us a picture of
the creation of a human community without meaning, curiosity or
boundaries and where everyone is the same. Again, the language of
psychosis can seem appealing here; a world in which different
things are treated the same and accorded the same lack of value.
Consequently, there is no distinction between truth and falsehood,
good or bad. The challenge for the inmates was to maintain some
sort of moral life and Levi is not at all sure they succeeded.
Instead, he sees them as living in a 'grey zone' where the best did
not always survive. Levi challenges others to judge those faced
with life in the work camps. However, he also is able to describe
'moments of reprieve' in this world where there is no 'why'.
Tvetlan Teodorov (1999), in contrast, provides accounts of the
maintenance of moral identity in the face of chaos, loss and
cruelty.
The Holocaust literature describes the development and
maintenance of a community which had an 'empty centre'; somewhere
there was a distance from all that is real and complex and human.
The planning and running of the Final Solution had an awful
banality. There is no complexity, no reflection, instead an awful
certainty that this is the way it has to be. Unremitting certainty
appears to be another common feature of evil states of mind at both
individual and group level.
Lastly, I want to consider Gita Sereny's account (1974) of her
interviews with Franz Stangl, who was commandant at Treblinka and
who oversaw the murder of some 900, 000 people. She talked to him
weekly for about a year. Seventeen hours after their last
interview, he died of a heart attack. At their last interview, he
had acknowledged to some degree the wrong and harm he had done and
Sereny's feeling was that his death came about because of this
confession, that he had become' the man he should have been', a man
who felt grief and remorse for the evil that was done by him. How
much can any normal heart take?
The moral self and the mirror
If we compare these narratives of evil states of mind, in the
individual and the group, what can we learn about moral identity
and its failure? Where do we get our moral identities from and how
and under what circumstances can they be undermined or
dismantled?
We may conclude, as did Worsley, that evil is not extraordinary
but 'insidiously normal', or as St. Augustine did, that it is part
of our human nature. I prefer Aquinas' view, the one with which I
began, because it seems to me to hint at the importance of our
developmental history in understanding the expression of the
potential for both good and evil.
Developments in social biology and attachment theory over the
last twenty years tell us that humans have an innate capacity for
relating with others and the development of the capacity to make
effective and loving relationships is a task that takes us from the
cradle to the grave. In our earliest relationships with others, we
develop our own sense of self, organized in the mirror of our
relationships with others. The problem that Narcissus had was that
he did not recognize himself. An absence of mirroring meant that
his own sense of self was faulty.
Without that mirroring function, we do not learn to self-reflect
and without self-reflective function, there may be little capacity
for empathy. There is evidence that relating empathetically with
others is an essential part of our make up. As early as eighteen
months, children relate to each other in what the psychologists
call 'prosocial' ways, attempting to comfort distress and being
helpful to others.
Presumably the capacity for love and prosociability can be lost
or never acquired. In this sense therefore, if a person does not
acquire a disposition for good, then he or she may well then
develop a disposition for evil. One recalls Aristotle's account of
the importance of character for virtue and the relationship between
personality, self and character. I find myself wondering if by
character, Aristotle meant that moral sense of self or I-ness,
which is transpersonal and connects to those other important
aspects of self experience, 'me' and 'we'.
In the hospital setting we see people who seem to have lost the
capacity to relate to others, but very much in the context of a
failed sense of self. It seems to me that as well as other people
not being very real for them, many of our patients also are not
very 'real' to themselves either. One thinks here of the children's
story of the velveteen rabbit, (Williams, 1992) who was loved into
being real; we may compare this experience with not only our own
but also the experience of 80% of our patients who have experienced
abuse, fear and neglect as children. Their failure to be loved has
caused them not to be 'real', with important moral
consequences.
The psychological construct called psychopathy has often been
invoked as the mental capacity for evil. Research using a checklist
based on psychopathy characteristics (callousness, lack of empathy,
emotional shallowness) shows that a subgroup of people does exist
with these personality traits, and they are at increased risk of
acting violently to others. Hare (1991) argues that these are
people who have failed to acquire a moral identity, or perhaps who
moral identity is faulty in some way, either as a result of
inherited or environmental factors.
However, the concept of psychopathy does not account for those
'ordinary' men and women who seem to have the capacity for loving,
and goodness in relation to some people but who appear to abandon
it in relation to others. Accounts by Dicks (1972) and others of
working with those who commit atrocities (usually in the context of
state organized violence or war) do indicate ways in which one can
'train' people out of feeling. If as Midgley suggests, feelings:
'are lasting attitudes with logic and structure', then by
convincing people of some sort of logic or structure, feelings will
follow. (One thinks here of the importance of propaganda, and the
misuse of both science and history to fuel racial hatred).
Feelings themselves can also give rise to logical thoughts and
mental structures and I want to focus next on the importance of
grief and its common accompaniments, rage and despair. I have no
doubt that the capacity for evil is much more likely to emerge when
these feelings are present, either at the level of the group or the
individual. Given that we all have the potential for all these
feelings and we cannot know what new events will test us, it seems
to me that Aquinas is right; at all times, and in all places, we
have the potential for both great good and great evil. I see our
psychological life as a wave function, operating at both individual
and group levels, and that when the wave function collapses there
are crucial moments of moral significance when we are in a state of
mind for some type of action, good or bad. Many factors will
influence the collapse of the wave function; internal factors such
as rage, despair or great compassion and external influences such
as political will and history.
If there were more time, I would give an account of other
important psychological mechanisms that act as internal influences.
These include unresolved trauma and victimization, which in turn
may lead to identification with the aggressor, dominance and the
denigration of vulnerability, the influence of perceived authority
and the abandoning of identity and responsibility.
I would also want to say something about the capacity for
thinking about thinking: complexity and the second order thinking.
Mary Main (1991) calls this 'metacognition' and she posits a close
relationship between the capacity for metacognition, secure
attachments and the capacity for curiosity. The lack of a sense of
curiosity is arguably an important aspect of failure of empathy -
the inability to see things another way. Insecurity of attachment
is also related to failure of language around autobiographical
memory, another important aspect of the construction of the sense
of self.
Walking the Via Dolorosa: What happens after...
'Will you take me on the way a little? T'is but a little
that I can take thee...yet I'll go with thee'
Shakespeare
(Othello)
I want to close by thinking a little about what happens
afterwards. I often think that my patients are like survivors of a
disaster where they were the disaster. Disaster survivors
often describe how they feel cut off from the social group where
they used to belong. For offenders this is also true; but the sense
of being cut off by what they have done is amplified by the
rejection by that social group, often shrill and vocal. Berlin
(1969) suggests that connection to a community entails connection
to a set of values and that those who do not share those values are
excluded from community.
So what can we do for those who have been so rejected? First, we
can be there on the Via Dolorosa, 'to take them on the way a
little'. Second, we can use therapeutic time (in all its forms) to
help these people construct an autobiography, a more complex,
colourful and detailed narrative. In the space between us, we want
to help the person to develop some greater sense of being real; to
reintegrate the different sense of self that often seems so
chaotically connected, expressed in what this patient said to
me:
'I had multiple masks... I don't really know who I
am'.
The ability to construct an autobiography inevitably contains a
moral element insofar as we are made of our connectedness to
others; the 'self' is intimately relational in nature, not an
atomistic object. If our selfhood is relational in nature, it is
moral, for to hurt another person is to hurt ourselves and we
suffer. As John Donne said, 'Any man's death diminishes
me'. (1972)
But we have to let ourselves know that; and we have powers of
deception and disconnection that allow us to cut off from knowing
about our connectedness to others. Traumatic experiences, even
ordinary life experiences, can steer us into that type of
disconnection. And addressing this through therapy is not easy or
painless, for it means facing up to hidden, unspeakable things.
'You must not hide your impulse to do evil. You must take it
out and place it before you every day. The impulse to do evil can
only have great power over you when you cannot see it'.
(Freeman, 1991)
Lastly, I want to think about the importance of judgement. Primo
Levi argues strongly that judgement is important; he and his fellow
prisoners were victims of violence no matter what unconscious
forces were at work in them as in all people. I think this is a
crucial point for forensic work because it seems to me that we are
not allowed the luxury of non-judgement, to be found in the kindly
benevolence of medicine that is empathic and kind to all. I am not
suggesting for a moment that we should become punitive but rather
that we cannot take ourselves out of the moral discourse in which
the offenders are involved. We are part of the community that they
alienated themselves from by their actions; there is a moral
valence or spin to the work and the thinking that cannot be
avoided. To pretend with offender patients that they did not do
something awful is to miss out on a most important therapeutic
aspect. Explanation is not excuse and the patients are aware of
this.
Conclusion
As my late and much-missed colleague Murray Cox used to say, we
need not just dialogue but trialogue. Our reflections about good
and evil will be incomplete without input from three sources,
psychology (especially neuro-psychology), literature and theology.
Had I more time, I would share with the you the excitement and
importance of the work of Allan Schore (2001) and Sean Spence,
(Spence & Frith, 1999) who between them provide important
evidence about the importance of the prefrontal cortex in making
relationships and choices. From literature and theology, we get
much needed complexity - images and words to free us from crude
reductionism, which may seriously misrepresent reality - for
language is vital in the face of the unspeakable. Memory and
symbols are essentials to develop the type of emotional language
that is necessary for autobiographical competence.
Members of the Christian faith sometimes describe themselves as
'Easter people', people with hope. That particular transcendent
story also tells of being Good Friday people and like many other
transcendent stories, suggests that suffering and cruelty often
precede great good. It seemed to me that after the evil of
September 11th, we feel touched by a terrible darkness; but we are
all creators of both light and darkness. We contribute each one to
the light or the dark and each one of us has the capacity to
contribute in our own way. Each time we do something unworthy, we
contribute to a type of collective blindness, a turning away, and
at times it happens to all of us, that much is certain. But as Jim
Gilligan (1999) puts it, there can be atonement, or at-one-ment. We
need not give up hope that if we gather all the fragments, nothing
will be lost forever, and that love is stronger than death. After
all, as Philip Larkin (1988) put it, 'what will survive of us is
love'. I hope that's true.
References
Aquinas, St. Thomas. Summa Theologiae. Vol. 22. Dispositions
for human acts. Trans. Kenny A. London, Eyre &
Spottiswoode 1964.
Berlin, I (1969) Four essays on liberty. Oxford Oxford
University Press.
Burleigh, M (1994) Death and deliverance: euthanasia in
Germany 1900-1945. Cambridge University Press.
Freeman, D (1991) Victim power: the clinical and
philosophical paradox of Nazi and Jew. The Guild of Pastoral
Psychology Newsletter, 1-14.
Gilligan, J (1999) The Inwit of Angebite. In Cox, M (ed.)
Remorse and Reparation. London, Jessica Kingsley
Publishers, London. Pp 33-47
Holmes, J (1992) Between Art & Science. London,
Routledge.
Larkin, P. (1988) An Arundel Tomb. In Collected Works. London,
Faber & Faber. Pp.110
Lewis, C.S (1942) The Screwtape letters. The Centenary
Press, London. Pp 64
Levi, P. (1988) The drowned and the saved. London, Abacus.
Lifton, R .J (1986) The Nazi Doctors: a study of the
psychology of evil. New York, Basic Books.
Main, M (1991) Metacognition. In Parkes, Stevenson-Hinde &
Marris, P (eds.) Attachment across the life cycle. London,
Routledge.
Midgley, M (1984) Wickedness: a philosophical essay.
London, Routledge.
Nitsun, M (1994) The anti-group. London, Routledge.
Pines, M (1998) Circular reflections: selected papers on group
analysis and psychoanalysis. London, Jessica Kingsley
Publishers. Pp 211-225
Schore, A. (2001) Effect of early relational trauma on right
brain development, affect regulation and infant mental health.
Infant Mental Health Journal, 22: 201-269
Sereny, G (1974) Into that darkness. London, Andre
Deutsch.
Smart, N (1969) The religious experience of mankind.
Fontana edition 1971. London.
Tillich, P (1951) Systematic theology. University of Chicago
Press, Chicago.
Teodorov, T (1999) Facing the extreme: moral life in the
concentration camps. London. Weidenfield & Nicholson.
Williams, M & Nicholson, W. (1992) The Velveteen Rabbit.
London, Mammoth.
Wordsworth, W. Lines composed above Tintern Abbey. In, A
Treasury of Great Poems. Ed. Louis Untermeyer. New York, Simon
Schuster, 1942.
Worsley, R (1996) Human freedom and the logic of evil.
London, MacMillan.
© Gwen Adshead 2002