Thus, one aspect of the porcupine parable is that men of true worth, particularly men of genius, do not require warmth from others. But there is another, darker aspect to the porcupine parable: that our fellow creatures are unpleasant and repulsive and, hence, to be avoided. This misanthropic stance is to be found everywhere in Schopenhauer's writings, which are studded with scorn and sarcasm. Consider the beginning of this passage from his insightful essay "On the Doctrine of the Indestructibility of Our True Nature by Death": "If in daily intercourse we are asked by one of the many who would like to know everything but who will learn nothing, about continued existence after death, the most suitable and above all the most correct answer would be: 'After your death you will be what you were before your birth.'"
The essay continues with a penetrating and fascinating analysis of the impossibility of two kinds of nothingness and in its entirety offers insights to every human who has ever contemplated the nature of death. But why begin with a gratuitous insult--"one of the many who would like to know everything but who will learn nothing"?--Why contaminate sublime thoughts with petty invective? Such dissonant juxtaposition is commonplace in Schopenhauer's writings. How disquieting to encounter a thinker so gifted yet so socially challenged, so prescient yet so blinded.
Throughout his writings Schopenhauer laments any time spent in socializing and conversation. "It is better," he says, "not to speak at all than to carry on a conversation as sterile and dull as is the ordinary conversation with bipeds."
He lamented that he had sought all his life for a "true human being" but found none but "miserable wretches, of limited intelligence, bad heart, and mean disposition." (Except Goethe, whom he always explicitly exempted from such diatribes.)
In an autobiographical note he states, "Almost every contact with men is a contamination, a defilement. We have descended into a world populated with pitiable creatures to whom we do not belong. We should esteem and honor the few who are better; we are born to instruct the rest, not to associate with them."
If we sift through his writings, it is possible to construct a misanthropist's manifesto: the rules of human conduct by which we should live. Imagine how Arthur, adhering to this manifesto, might have fared in a contemporary therapy group!
* "Do not tell a friend what your enemy ought not to know."
* "Regard all personal affairs as secrets and remain complete strangers, even to our close friends.... with changed circumstances their knowledge of the most harmless things about us may be to our disadvantage."
* "Giving way neither to love nor to hate is one half of world wisdom: to say nothing and believe nothing, the other half."
* "Distrust is the mother of safety" (a French proverb, cited approvingly).
* "To forget at any time the bad traits of a man's character is like throwing away hard-earned money. We must protect ourselves from foolish familiarity and foolish friendship."
* "The only way to attain superiority in dealing with men is to let it be seen you are independent of them."
* "To disregard is to win regard."
* "If we really think highly of a person we should conceal it from him like a crime."
* "Better to let men be what they are than to take them for what they are not."
* "We must never show anger and hatred except in our actions.... it is only the cold-blooded animals that are poisonous."
* "By being polite and friendly, you can make people pliable and obliging: hence politeness is to human nature what warmth is to wax."
26
_________________________
Thereare few ways by
which you can make
more
certain
of
putting people into
a good humor than by
telling them of some
trouble
that
has
recently
befallen
you,
or
by
disclosing
some
personal weakness of
yours.
_________________________
At the next meeting Gill plunked himself down, his huge frame testing the limits of his chair, waited until everyone arrived, and started the meeting.
"If no one else has something, I want to continue with the 'secrets'
exercise."
"Let me insert a cautionary note here," said Julius. "I don't think it's a good idea to make this a prescribed exercise. I do believe that folks do better in the group when they reveal themselves fully, but it's important to move at our own pace and not feel pressured by any exercise to open up."
"I hear you," answered Gill, "but I don't feel pressured. I want to talk about this, and I also don't want to leave Rebecca and Stuart hanging out there alone. That okay?"
After noting the nods in the group, Gill continued: "My secret goes back to when I was thirteen. I was a virgin, barely into puberty, covered with acne, and Aunt Valerie, my father's youngest sister...she was late twenties or early thirties...used to stay with us from time to time--she was between jobs a lot. We got along great, played around a lot when my folks were out--wrestling, tickling, card games. Then one time, when I cheated at strip poker and got her naked, things got real sexual--no longer tickling but some serious feeling up. I was inexperienced and hormone-hot and didn't know exactly what was going on, but when she said to 'stick it in,' I said 'yes, ma'am' and followed instructions. After that we did it anytime we could until a couple of months later when my folks came home early and caught us red-handed, flat out in the act--what's that
called...flagrant...flagrant something?"
Gill looked toward Philip, who opened his mouth to answer but was preempted by Pam, who said with lightning speed, "Flagrante delicto."
"Wow, fast...I forgot we have two professors here," murmured Gill, who continued his account: "Well, the whole thing kind of messed up the family. My dad didn't get too hot under the collar about it, but my mother was livid and Aunt Val didn't stay with us anymore, and my mother was furious with Dad for continuing to be friendly to her."
Gill stopped, looked around, and then added, "I can understand why my mother was upset, but, still, it was as much my fault as Aunt Val's."
"Your fault--at thirteen? Come on!" said Bonnie. Others--Stuart, Tony, Rebecca--nodded in agreement.
Before Gill could respond, Pam said, "I've got a response, Gill.
Maybe not what you're expecting but something I've been holding back, something I wanted to say to you even before I left on my trip. I don't know how to put it tactfully, Gill, so I'm not going to try--just going to cut loose. Bottom line is that your story doesn't move me one bit, and, in most ways, you just don't move me. Even though you say you're revealing yourself like Rebecca and Stuart did, I don't experience you as being personal.
"I know that you're committed to the group," Pam continued. "You seem to work hard, you take a lot of responsibility for taking care of others, and, if someone runs out, it's usually you that runs to get them back. You seem to reveal yourself, but you don't--it's an illusion--you stay hidden. Yes, that's what you are--hidden, hidden, hidden. Your story about your aunt is so typical of what I mean. It seems personal, but it's not.
It's a trick because it's not your story, it's your Aunt Val's story, and of course everyone is going to jump in and say, 'But you were just a child, you were thirteen, you were the victim.' What else could they say? And your stories about your marriage have always been about Rose, never about you. And they always get exactly the same response from us, ' Why do you put up with that shit!'
"When I was meditating in India--bored out of my gourd--I
thought a lot about this group. You can't believe how much. And I thought about each person here. Except for you, Gill. I hate to say this, but I just didn't think about you. When you talk, I never know who you're talking to--maybe the walls, or the floor, but I never experience you as speaking personall
y to me."
Silence. The members seemed bewildered about how to respond.
Then Tony whistled and said, "Welcome back, Pam."
"No sense of being here if I'm not going to be honest," said Pam.
"What are you feeling, Gill?" asked Julius.
"Oh, just my typical feeling when I get a drop-kick to my belly--
spitting out a few pieces of pancreas. Is that personal enough, Pam? Wait, wait, sorry, don't answer. I didn't mean that. I know you're giving me good straight stuff. And deep down, I know you're right."
"Say more about that Gill, about her being right," said Julius.
"She's right. I could reveal more. I know that. I have things I could say to people here."
"To who, for example?" asked Bonnie.
"Well, you. I really like you, Bonnie."
"Nice to hear, Gill, but it's still not too personal."
"Well, I got off on you calling me a hunk a couple of weeks ago.
And I don't buy into your labeling yourself homely and so out of Rebecca's beauty league--I've always had a thing--maybe ever since Aunt Val--about older women. And I'll be honest, I had some juicy fantasies when you invited me to stay at your place when I didn't want to go home to Rose."
"That why you didn't take Bonnie up on her offer?" asked Tony.
"Other stuff came up."
When it became clear Gill was not going to elaborate, Tony asked, "You want to say more about the other stuff?"
Gill sat for a moment, his bald pate glistening with sweat, and then mustered resolve and said, "Tell you what, let me go around the rest of the group and talk about my feelings." He began with Stuart, who sat next to Bonnie. "For you, Stuart, I got nothing but admiration. If I had kids, I'd feel lucky to have you as their doctor. And what you described last week doesn't change any of my feelings.
"And you, Rebecca, tell you the truth, you intimidate me--you
seem too perfect, too pretty, too clean. What you told us about the incident in Las Vegas doesn't change that--to me you're still pristine and spotless with tons of confidence. Maybe it's because I'm flustered now, but I can't even remember why you're in therapy. Stuart's image of you being a porcelain doll--that rings true--maybe you're a little too brittle, maybe you got some sharp edges--I don't know.
"And, Pam, you're a straight shooter, blunt, smartest person I'd ever met until Philip entered--he can give you a run for it. I know I don't want to get on the wrong side of either of you. But, Pam, you've got stuff to work on with men. They've given you hard times, but then, again, you hate us. All of us. Hard to know what's chicken, what's egg.
"Philip, you're way up there, like, in another whole layer or...or realm of being. But I wonder about you. I wonder if you've ever had a friend--I can't see you actually hanging out, having a beer, talking about the Giants. I can't see you having a good time or actually ever liking anyone. And I'll tell you the real question for me: why aren't you lonely? "
Gill continued on, "Tony, you're fascinating to me, you work with your hands, you really do things, not push numbers around like me. I wish you weren't so ashamed of your work.
"Well that's everybody."
"No, it's not," said Rebecca, glancing toward Julius.
"Oh, Julius? He's of the group, not in the group."
"What's ' of the group' mean?" asked Rebecca.
"Oh, I don't know, just a cute phrase I heard and been wanting to use. Julius--he's just there for me, for everyone, he's far above us. The way he..."
"He?" asked Julius, pantomiming searching about the group.
"Where is this 'he' guy?"
"Okay, I mean you, Julius, the way you're handling your illness--I mean it's impressive--I'll never forget it."
Gill stopped. Everyone's attention remained riveted upon him, but he exhaled with a loud "whoosh." He looked as though he had had it and settled back in his chair, obviously fatigued, and took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and head.
Sentiments such as "good job, you took some risks" were voiced by Rebecca, Stuart, Tony, and Bonnie. Pam and Philip remained silent.
"How was that, Gill? You satisfied?" asked Julius.
Gill nodded. "I broke some new ground. Hope I didn't offend."
"How about you, Pam? You satisfied?"
"I've already put in my time today as the group bitch."
"Gill, let me ask you to do something," said Julius. "Imagine a continuum of self-revealing. At one pole, which we'll call 'one,' is the safest revealing, cocktail party stuff; and at the other pole, call it 'ten,'
would be the deepest and riskiest revealing you can possibly imagine. Got that?"
Gill nodded.
"Now look back on your go-round just now. Tell me, Gill, what
kind of score would you give yourself?"
Continuing to nod, Gill answered swiftly, "I'd give myself a 'four,'
maybe a 'five'."
Julius, wanting to circumvent intellectualization or other defenses from Gill's arsenal of resistance, responded instantly, "And now tell me, Gill, what would happen it you were to ratchet up a notch or two?"
"If I were to ratchet up a notch or two," Gill replied without hesitation, "I'd tell the group I was an alcoholic and that I drink myself to unconsciousness every night."
The group was stunned, Julius no less than the others. Before he had brought Gill into the group, he had seen him in individual therapy for two years and never, not once, had Gill mentioned an alcohol problem. How could this be? Julius was congenitally trusting of his patients. He was one of those optimistic souls who was greatly destabilized by duplicity; he felt wobbly and needed time to formulate a new vision of Gill. As he mused silently about his own naivete and the tenuousness of reality, the mood of the group darkened and progressed from incredulousness to stridency.
"What, you're joking!"
"I can't believe it. How could you have come here week after week and withhold this?"
"You never took a drink with me, not even a beer. What was that all about?"
"Goddamn it! When I think of all the wild-goose chases you led us on, all the time we wasted."
"What kind of game were you playing?--everything a lie--I mean that stuff about Rose's problems--her bitchiness, her refusing sex, her refusal to have a child, and not a word about the real issue--your drinking."
Once Julius got his bearings, he understood what to do. A basic axiom that he taught to his group therapy students was: Members should never be punished for self-disclosure. On the contrary, risk taking must always be supported and reinforced.
With that in mind, he said to the group: "I understand your dismay that Gill never told us this before. But let's not forget one important thing: today Gill did open up, he did trust us. " As he spoke, he glanced, only for a moment, at Philip, hoping that Philip would learn something about therapy from this transaction. Then to Gill: "What I'm wondering about is what made it possible for you to take this kind of chance today? "
Gill, too ashamed to face the others, concentrated his attention on Julius and replied in a chastened tone. "I guess it was the risky revealing in the last couple of meetings--beginning with Pam and Philip and then Rebecca and Stuart--I'm pretty sure that was why I could say--"
"How long?" interrupted Rebecca. "How long have you been an
alcoholic?"
"Creeps up on you, you know, so I'm not sure. I always liked the booze, but I guess I started meeting all the criteria about five years ago."
"You're what kind of an alcoholic?" asked Tony.
"My favorite poison is Scotch, cabernet, and black Russians. But I don't turn down anything--vodka, gin--totally ambidextrous."
"What I meant was 'when' and 'how much,'" said Tony.
Gill showed no defensiveness and seemed prepared to answer any question. "Mostly after hours. I start with Scotches as soon as I get home (or before I get home if Rose is giving me a hard time), and then I work my way through good wine the rest of the evening--at least a bottle, sometimes
two, until I pass out in front of the TV."
"Where's Rose on this?" asked Pam.
"Well, we used to be big wine buffs together, built a two-thousand-bottle cellar, went to auctions. But she's not encouraging my drinking now--now she rarely has a glass at dinner and wants no part of any wine-related activities, except for some of her big social wine-tasting events."
Julius tried again to buck the current and bring the group back to the here-and-now. "I'm trying to imagine how you must have felt coming to meeting after meeting here and not talking about this."
"It wasn't easy," Gill admitted, shaking his head.
Julius always taught students the difference between vertical and horizontal self-disclosure. The group was pressing, as expected, for vertical disclosure--details about the past, including such queries as the scope and duration of his drinking--whereas horizontal disclosure, that is, disclosure about the disclosure, was always far more productive.
This meeting was vintage stuff for teaching, Julius mused, and he reminded himself to remember the sequence of events for future lectures and writing. And then, with a thud, he recalled that the future had no relevance for him. Though the poisonous black wart had been carved out of his shoulder, he knew that somewhere in his body lethal colonies of melanoma remained, voracious cells that craved life more than his own fatigued cells. They were there, pulsating, gulping oxygen and nutrients, growing and gathering strength. And his dark thoughts were always there also, percolating under the membrane of consciousness. Thank God for his one method of stilling his terror: entering into life as forcefully as possible. The extraordinarily intense life being lived in this group was very good medicine for him.
The Schopenhauer Cure Page 23