Ирвин Ялом - The Schopenhauer Cure Страница 5

the best hope for release was a spiritual conversion. His suggestion led me to religious

philosophy—especially the ideas and practices of the Far East—they were the only ones

that made any sense. All other religious systems failed to explore the fundamental

philosophical questions but instead used God as a method of avoiding true philosophical

analysis. I even put in a few weeks at meditation retreats. That was not without interest. It

didn`t halt the obsession, but nonetheless I had a feeling that there was something

important there. I just wasn`t yet ready for it.

«Meanwhile, except for the interlude of forced chastity in the ashram, and even

there I managed to find a few sliding doors, I continued the sexual hunt. As before, I had

sex with a lot of women, by the dozens, by the hundreds. Sometimes two a day,

anywhere, anytime I could find them—the same as when I was seeing you. Sex once,

occasionally twice, with a woman and then moving on. Never exciting after that; you

know the old saying: ‘You can only have sex for the first time with the same girl once.`”

Philip lifted his chin from his fingertips and turned to Julius.

«That last comment was meant to be humor, Dr. Hertzfeld. I remember you once

said it was remarkable that, in all our hours together, I never once told you a joke.»

Julius, now in no mood for levity, forced his lips into a grin even though he

recognized Philip`s little bon mot as something he himself had once said to Philip. Julius

imagined Philip as a mechanical doll with a large key jutting from the top of his head.

Time to wind him up again. «And then what happened?»

Gazing at the ceiling, Philip continued. «Then one day I reached a momentous

decision. Since no therapist had helped in any way—and, sorry to say, Dr. Hertzfeld, that

included you—”

«I`m beginning to get that particular point,” Julius interjected, then quickly added,

«No apologies needed. You`re simply answering my questions honestly.»

«Sorry, didn`t mean to dwell on that. To continue, since therapy had not been the

answer, I decided to heal myself—a course of bibliotherapy, assimilating the relevant

thoughts of the wisest men whoever lived. So I began systematically reading the entire

corpus of philosophy starting with the Greek pre–Socratics and working my way up to

Popper, Rawls, and Quine. After a year of study my compulsion was no better, but I

arrived at some important decisions: namely, that I was on the right track and that

philosophy was my home. This was a major step—I remember how much you and I had

talked about my never being at home anywhere in the world.»

Julius nodded. «Yes, I remember that, too.»

«I decided that, as long as I was going to spend years reading philosophy, I might

as well make a profession of it. My money wouldn`t last forever. So I entered the Ph.D.

program in philosophy at Columbia. I did well, wrote a competent dissertation, and five

years later had a doctorate in philosophy. I embarked on a teaching career and then, just a

couple of years ago, became interested in applied or, as I prefer to think of it, ‘clinical

philosophy.` And that brings me up to today.»

«You haven`t finished telling me about being healed.»

«Well, at Columbia, midway through my reading, I developed a relationship with a

therapist, the perfect therapist, the therapist who offered me what no one else had been

able to give.»

«In New York, eh? What was his name? At Columbia? What institute did he

belong to?»

«His name was Arthur...” Philip paused and watched Julius with a trace of a grin

on his lips.

«Arthur?»

«Yes, Arthur Schopenhauer, my therapist.»

«Schopenhauer? You`re putting me on, Philip.»

«I`ve never been more serious.»

«I know little about Schopenhauer: just the clichГ©s about his gloomy pessimism.

I`ve never heard his name mentioned in the context of therapy. How was he able to help?

What—?»

«I hate to cut you off, Dr. Hertzfeld, but I have a client coming and I still refuse to

be late—that hasn`t changed. Please give me your card. Some other time I`ll tell you

more about him. He was the therapist meant for me. I don`t exaggerate when I say I owe

my life to the genius of Arthur Schopenhauer.»

4

1787—The

Genius: Stormy

Beginning

and False Start

_________________________

Talentis like a marksman who

hits a target which others

cannot reach; genius is like a

marksman who hits a target

which others cannot see.

_________________________

Stormy Beginning—The genius was only four inches long when the storms began. In

September of 1787 his enveloping amniotic sea roiled, tossed him to and fro, and

threatened his fragile attachment to the uterine shore. The sea waters reeked of anger and

fear. The sour chemicals of nostalgia and despair enveloped him. Gone forever were

sweet balmy bobbing days. With nowhere to turn and no hope of comfort, his tiny neural

synapses flared and fired in all directions.

What is young–learned is best–learned. Arthur Schopenhauer never forgot his early

lessons.

False Start (or How Arthur Schopenhauer almost became an Englishman)—Arthurrr.

Arthurrr, Arthurrrr. Heinrich Florio Schopenhauer scratched each syllable with his

tongue. Arthur—a good name, an excellent name for the future head of the great

Schopenhauer mercantile house.

It was 1787, and his young wife, Johanna, was two months pregnant when

Heinrich Schopenhauer made a decision: if he had a son, he would name him Arthur. An

honorable man, Heinrich allowed nothing to take precedence over duty. Just as his

ancestors had passed the stewardship of the great Schopenhauer mercantile house to him,

he would pass it to his son. These were perilous times, but Heinrich was confident that

his yet unborn son would guide the firm into the nineteenth century. Arthur was the

perfect name for the position. It was a name spelled the same in all major European

languages, a name which would slip gracefully through all national borders. But, most

important of all, it was an English name!

For centuries Heinrich`s ancestors had guided the Schopenhauer business with

great diligence and success. Heinrich`s grandfather once hosted Catherine the Great of

Russia and, to ensure her comfort, ordered brandy to be poured over the floors of the

guest quarters and then set afire to leave the rooms dry and aromatic. Heinrich`s father

had been visited by Frederick, the king of Prussia, who spent hours attempting,

unsuccessfully, to persuade him to shift the company from Danzig to Prussia. And now

the stewardship of the great merchant house had passed to Heinrich, who was convinced

that a Schopenhauer bearing the name of Arthur would lead the firm into a brilliant

future.

The Schopenhauer mercantile house, dealing in the trade of grains, timber, and

coffee, had long been one of the leading firms of Danzig, that venerable Hanseatic city

which had long dominated the Baltic trade. But bad times had come for the grand free

city. With Prussia menacing in the west and Russia in the east, and with a weakened

Poland no longer able to continue guaranteeing Danzig`s sovereignty, Heinrich

Schopenhauer had no doubt that Danzig`s days of freedom and trading stability were

coming to an end. All of Europe was awash in political and financial turmoil—save

England. England was the rock. England was the future. The Schopenhauer firm and

family would find safe haven in England. No, more than safe haven, it would prosper if

its future head should be born an Englishman and bear an English name. Herr Arthurrr

Schopenhauer, no—Mister Arthurrr Schopenhauer—an English subject heading the firm:

that was the ticket to the future.

So, paying no heed to the protests of his teenaged pregnant wife, who pleaded to be

in her mother`s calming presence for the birth of her first child, he set off, wife in tow,

for the long trip to England. The young Johanna was aghast but had to submit to the

unbending will of her husband. Once settled in London, however, Johanna`s ebullient

spirit returned and her charm soon captivated London society. She wrote in her travel

journal that her new English loving friends offered comforting reassurance and that

before long she was the center of much attention.

Too much attention and too much love for the dour Heinrich, apparently, whose

anxious jealousy shortly escalated into panic. Unable to catch his breath and feeling as

though the tension in his chest would split him asunder, he had to do something. And so,

reversing his course, he abruptly left London, carting his protesting wife, now almost six

months pregnant, back to Danzig during one of the century`s most severe winters. Years

later Johanna described her feelings at being yanked from London: «No one helped me, I

had to overcome my grief alone. The man dragged me, in order to cope with his anxiety,

halfway across Europe.»

This, then, was the stormy setting of the genius`s gestation: a loveless marriage, a

frightened, protesting mother, an anxious, jealous father, and two arduous trips across a

wintry Europe.

5

_________________________

Ahappy life is impossible; the

best that a man can attain is

a heroic life.

_________________________

Leaving Philip`s office, Julius felt stunned. He gripped the banister and unsteadily

descended the stairs and staggered into the sunlight. He stood in front of Philip`s building

and tried to decide whether to turn left or right. The freedom of an unscheduled afternoon

brought confusion rather than joy. Julius had always been focused. When he was not

seeing patients, other important projects and activities—writing, teaching, tennis,

research—clamored for his attention. But today nothing seemed important. He suspected

that nothing hadever been important, that his mind had arbitrarily imbued projects with

importance and then cunningly covered its traces. Today he saw through the ruse of a

lifetime. Today there was nothing important to do, and he ambled aimlessly down Union

Street.

Toward the end of the business section just past Fillmore Street, an old woman

approached him noisily pushing a walker.God, what a sight! Julius thought. He first

averted his face, then turned back to take inventory. Her clothes—several layers of

sweaters capped by a burly overcoat—were preposterous for the sunny day. Her

chipmunk cheeks churned hard, no doubt to keep dentures in place. But worst of all was

the huge excrescence of flesh that buttressed one of her nostrils—a translucent pink wart

the size of a grape, out of which sprouted several long bristles.

Stupid old ladywas Julius`s next thought, which he immediately amended: «She`s

probably no older than me. In fact, she`s my future—the wart, the walker, the wheelchair.

As she came closer, he heard her mumbling: «Now, let`s see what`s in these shops ahead.

What will it be? What will I find?»

«Lady, I have no idea, I`m just walking here,” Julius called out to her.

«I weren`t talking to you.»

«I don`t see anyone else here.»

«That still don`t mean I`m talking to you.»

«If not me, who?» Julius put his hands above his eyes and pantomimed looking up

and down the empty street.

«What`s it your business? Goddamn street freaks,” she muttered as she clanked her

walker past him.

Julius froze for a moment. He looked about him to make certain that no one had

witnessed that interaction. My God, he thought, I`m losing it—what the fuck am I doing?

Good thing I have no patients this afternoon. No doubt about it: spending time with Philip

Slate is not good for my disposition.

Turning toward the intoxicating aroma emanating from Starbucks, Julius decided

that an hour with Philip called for indulgence with a double espresso. He settled into a

window seat and watched the passing show. No gray heads to be seen, inside or outside.

At sixty–five he was the oldest person around, the oldest of the old, and rapidly growing

older inside as his melanoma continued its silent invasion.

Two pert counter clerks flirted with some of the male customers. These were the

girls that had never looked his way, never flirted with him when he was young nor caught

his gaze as he aged. Time to realize that his time would never come, that those nubile,

breasty girls with the Snow White faces would never turn his way with a coy smile and

say, «Hey, haven`t seen you here for a while. How`s it going?» It was not going to

happen. Life was seriously linear and not reversible.

Enough. Enough self–pity. He knew what to say to whiners: find a way to turn your

gaze outward, stretch beyond yourself. Yes, that was the way—find the route to turn this

shit into gold. Why not write about it? Perhaps as a personal journal or blog. Then

something more visible—who knows what?—maybe an article for theJournal of the

American Psychiatric Association on «The Psychiatrist Confronting Mortality.» Or

maybe something commercial for theSunday Times Magazine. He could do it. Or why not

a book? Something likeAutobiography of a Demise. Not bad! Sometimes when you find a

dynamite title, the piece just writes itself. Julius ordered an espresso, took out his pen and

unfolded a paper bag he found on the floor. As he began to scribble, his lips curled into a

slight smile at the humble origins of his powerful book.

Friday November 2, 1990. DDD (death–discovery day) + 16

No doubt about it: searching out Philip Slate was a bad idea. A bad idea to think I could

get something from him. A bad idea to meet with him. Never again. Philip a therapist?

Unbelievable—a therapist sans empathy, sensitivity, caring. He heard me say on the

phone that I had health problems and that these problems were part of the reason I

wanted to meet with him. Yet not one personal question about how I was doing. Not even

a handshake. Frigid. Inhuman. Kept ten feet away from me. I worked like hell for that guy

for three years. Gave him everything. Gave him my best stuff. Ungrateful bastard.

Oh yes, I know what he would say. I can hear that disembodied precise voice of

his: «You and I had a commercial transaction: I gave you money and you provided your

expert services. I paid promptly for every hour of your consultation. Transaction over.

We`re even; I owe you nothing.»

Then he`d add, «Less than nothing, Dr. Hertzfeld, you had the best of our bargain.

You received your full fee, whereas I received nothing of value in return.»

The worst thing is, he`s right. He owes me nothing. I crow about psychotherapy

being a life of service. Service lovingly given. I have no lien on him. Why expect