The Schopenhauer Cure

by Irvin D. Yalom

  "I don't want to get caught in this crossfire. Some big cannons being wheeled out," said Gill.

  "Yeah," said Stuart, "neither of them can resist the

  opportunity for a jab. Philip's got to comment on someone else using Schopenhauer's phrase, and Pam can't resist the opportunity to call Philip a monstrous joke."

  "I didn't say he was a monstrous joke. I said..."

  "Get off it, Pam, you're nitpicking. You know what I

  meant." Stuart held his ground. "And anyway that blowup about

  Nabokov--that was out of line, Pam. You bad-mouth his hero, and then you praise someone else who borrows Schopenhauer's words.

  What's so wrong with Philip setting you straight? What's the big crime with his pointing out Schopenhauer's priority?"

  "I gotta say something," said Tony. "As usual I don't know

  who these dudes are--at least not Nabo...Nobo?

  "Nabokov," said Pam, in the soft voice she reserved for

  Tony. "He's a great Russian writer. You may have heard of his

  novel Lolita. "

  "Yeah, I saw that. Well, in this kind of talk I get into a

  vicious circle--not knowing makes me feel stupid, then I clam up, and then I feel more stupid. I've got to keep trying to break that pattern by speaking out." He turned to Julius: "So to answer your question about feelings, that's one feeling--stupid. Another is that for one instant, when he said, 'Is that vague enough for you?' I got a glimpse of Philip's teeth--and they're sharp teeth, real sharp.

  And some other feelings toward Pam," Tony turned to face her,

  "Pam, you're my girl--I really dig you, but I'll tell you

  something: I sure don't want to get on your bad side. "

  "I hear you," said Pam.

  "And, and..." said Tony, "I forgot the most important thing

  I was going to say--that this whole argument has gotten us off the track. We were talking about how we might be protecting or

  avoiding you, Julius. Then with Pam and Philip we got off the

  topic quick. So aren't we avoiding you again?"

  "You know, I don't feel that now. When we work as

  intimately as we're doing now, we never stay on a single trail. The stream of thought keeps overflowing into new channels. And,

  incidentally," Julius turned to Philip, "I use that term--

  intimately--quite deliberately. I think your anger--which we see breaking through here for the first time--is truly a sign of

  intimacy. I think you care enough about Pam to be angry at her."

  Julius knew Philip would not answer on his own and nudged

  him. "Philip?"

  Shaking his head, Philip replied, "I don't know how to

  assess your hypothesis. But there is something else I want to say. I confess that, like Pam, I also have been looking for comforting or at least relevant things to say to you. I have followed

  Schopenhauer's practice of ending each day reading from the

  works of Epictetus or from the Upanishads." Philip glanced in

  Tony's direction. "Epictetus was a Roman philosopher of the

  second century, and the Upanishads are an ancient sacred Hindu text. The other night I read a passage from Epictetus that I thought would be of value, and I've made copies of it. I've translated it loosely from the Latin into current vernacular." Philip reached into his briefcase, handed out copies to each member, and then, eyes closed, recited the passage from memory.

  When, on a sea voyage, the ship is brought to anchor, you go

  out to fetch water and gather a few roots and shells by the way.

  But you always need to keep your mind fixed on the ship, and

  constantly to look around, lest at any time the master of the

  ship call, and you must heed that call and cast away all those things, lest you be treated like the sheep that are bound and

  thrown into the hold.

  So it is with human life also. And if there be available

  wife and children instead of shells and roots, nothing should

  hinder us from taking them. But if the master call, run to the ship, forsaking all those things, and without looking behind.

  And if thou be in old age, go not far from the ship at any time, lest the master should call, and thou be not ready.

  Philip ended and held out his arms as though to say, "There

  it is."

  The group studied the passage. They were bewildered. Stuart

  broke the silence, "I'm trying, but, Philip, I don't get it. What's the value of this for Julius? Or for us?"

  Julius pointed to his watch. "Sorry to say we're out of time.

  But let me be teacherly and make one point. I often view a

  statement or act from two different points of view--from

  its content and from its process --and by process I mean what it tells us about the nature of the relationship between the parties involved. Like you, Stuart, I don't immediately understand the content of Philip's message: I've got to study it, and maybe the content can be a topic in another meeting. But I know something about the process. What I know, Philip, is that you, like Pam, were thinking about me, wanted to give me a gift, and you went to some lengths to do it: you memorized the passage and you made copies.

  And the meaning of that? It's got to reflect your caring about me.

  And what do I feel about it? I'm touched, I appreciate it, and I look forward to the time when you can express your caring in your own words."

  30

  _________________________

  Lifecan

  be

  compared to a

  piece

  of

  embroidered

  material

  of

  which, everyone

  in

  the

  first

  half

  of

  his

  time, comes to

  see

  the

  top

  side,

  but

  in

  the

  second

  half,

  the

  reverse

  side.

  The latter is

  not

  so

  beautiful, but

  is

  more

  instructive

  because

  it

  enables one to

  see

  how

  the

  threads

  are

  connected

  together.

  _________________________

  When the group left, Julius watched them walk down his front

  stairs to the street. Rather than peel off singly to their parked cars, they continued in a clump, undoubtedly on their way to the coffee shop. Oh, how he would have liked to grab his windbreaker and go flying down the stairs to join them. But that was another day, another life, another pair of legs, he thought, as he crept down the hall heading toward his office computer to enter his notes on the meeting. Suddenly, he changed his mind, walked back into the

  group room, took out his pipe, and enjoyed the aroma of rich

  Turkish tobacco. He had no particular purpose other than simply to bask for a few minutes more in the embers of the group session.

  This meeting, like the last three or four, had been riveting.

  His thoughts drifted back to the groups of breast cancer patients he had led so long ago. How often had those members described a

  golden period once they overcame the panic of realizing that they were truly going to die. Some said living with cancer had made them wiser, more self-realized, while others had reordered their priorities in life, grown stronger, learned to say no to activities they no longer valued and yes to things that really mattered--such as loving their family and friends, observing the beauty about them, savoring the changing seasons. But what a pity, so many had

  lamented, that it was onl
y after their bodies were riddled with cancer that they had learned how to live.

  These changes were so dramatic--indeed one patient had

  proclaimed, "Cancer cures psychoneurosis"--that on a couple of occasions Julius impishly described only the psychological

  changes to a class of students and then asked them to guess what kind of therapy was involved. How shocked students were to learn it was not therapy or medication but a confrontation with death that had made the difference. He owed a lot to those patients. What a model they were for him in his time of need. What a pity he

  couldn't tell them. Live right, he reminded himself, and have faith that good things will flow from you even if you never learn of them.

  And how are you doing with your cancer? he asked himself.

  I know a lot about the panic phase which, thank God, I'm now

  coming out of even though there are still those 3A.M. times when panic grips with a nameless terror that yields to no reasoning or rhetoric--it yields to nothing except Valium, the light of breaking dawn, or a soothing hot-tub soak.

  But have I changed or grown wiser? he wondered. Had my

  golden period? Maybe I'm closer to my feelings--maybe that's

  growth. I think, no, I know I've become a better therapist--grown more sensitive ears. Yes, definitely I'm a different therapist.

  Before my melanoma I would never have said that I was in love

  with the group. I would never have dreamed of revealing such

  intimate details of my life--Miriam's death, my sexual

  opportunism. And my irresistible compulsion to confess to the

  group today--Julius shook his head in amazement--

  that's something to wonder about, he thought. I feel a push to go against the grain, against my training, my own teaching.

  One thing for sure, they did not want to hear me. Talk about resistance! They wanted no part of my blemishes or my darkness.

  But, once I put it out, some interesting stuff emerged. Tony was something else! Acted like a skilled therapist--inquiring whether I was satisfied with the group's response, trying to normalize my behavior, pressing about "why now." Terrific stuff. I could almost imagine him leading the group after I'm gone--that would be

  something--a college dropout therapist with jail time in his past.

  And others--Gill, Stuart, Pam--stepped up, took care of me, and kept the group focused. Jung had other things in mind when he

  said that only the wounded healer can truly heal, but maybe honing the patients' therapeutic skills is a good enough justification for therapists to reveal their wounds.

  Julius moseyed down the hall to his office and continued

  thinking about the meeting. And Gill--did he show up today!

  Calling Pam "the chief justice" was terrific--and accurate. I have to help Pam integrate that feedback. Here's a case when Gill's vision is sharper than mine. For a long time I've liked Pam so much that I overlooked her pathology--maybe that's why I

  couldn't help her with her obsession about John.

  Julius turned on his computer and opened a file titled, "Short Story Plots"--a file which contained the great unfulfilled project in his life: to be a real writer. He was a good, contributing

  professional writer (he had published two books and a hundred

  articles in the psychiatric literature), but Julius yearned to write literature and for decades had collected plots for short stories from his imagination and his practice. Though he had started several, he never found the time, nor the courage, to finish and submit a story for publication.

  Scrolling down the lists of plots he clicked on "Victims

  confront their enemy" and read two of his ideas. The first

  confrontation took place on a posh ship cruising off the Turkish coast. A psychiatrist enters the ship's casino and there across the smoke-filled room sees an ex-patient, a con man who had once

  swindled him out of seventy-five thousand dollars. The second

  confrontation plot involved a female attorney who was assigned a pro bono case to defend an accused rapist. On her first jail

  interview with him she suspects he is the man who raped her ten years before.

  He made a new entry: "In a therapy group a woman

  encounters a man who, many years before, had been her teacher

  and sexually exploited her." Not bad. Great potential for literature, Julius thought, though he knew it would never be written. There were ethical issues: he'd need permission from Pam and Philip.

  And he'd need, also, the passage of ten years, which he didn't have. But potential, too, for good therapy, thought Julius. He was certain that something positive could come of this--if only he could keep them both in the group and could bear the pain of

  opening up old wounds.

  Julius picked up Philip's translation of the tale of the ship's passengers. He reread it several times, trying to understand its meaning or relevance. But still he ended up shaking his head.

  Philip offered it as comfort. But where was the comfort?

  31

  H

  o

  w

  A

  r

  t

  h

  u

  r

  L

  i

  v

  e

  d

  _________________________

  Evenwhen there

  is

  no

  particular

  provocation, I

  always have an

  anxious concern

  that causes me

  to see and look

  for

  dangers

  when

  none

  exist; for me

  it magnifies to

  infinity

  the

  tiniest

  vexation

  and

  makes

  association

  with

  people

  most difficult.

  _________________________

  After obtaining his doctorate, Arthur lived in Berlin, briefly in Dresden, Munich, and Mannheim, and then, fleeing a cholera

  epidemic, settled, for the last thirty years of his life, in Frankfurt, which he never left aside from one-day excursions. He had no paid employment, lived in rented rooms, never had a home, hearth,

  wife, family, intimate friendships. He had no social circle, no close acquaintances, and no sense of community--in fact he was often the subject of local ridicule. Until the very last few years of his life he had no audience, readership, or income from his writings. Since he had so few relationships, his meager correspondence consisted primarily of business matters.

  Despite his lack of friends, we nonetheless know more about

  his personal life than that of most philosophers because he was astonishingly personal in his philosophical writings. For example, in the opening paragraphs of the introduction to his major

  work, The World as Will and Representation, he strikes an unusually personal note for a philosophic treatise. His pure and clear prose makes it immediately evident that he desires to

  communicate personally with the reader. First he instructs the reader how to read his book, starting with a plea to read the book twice--and to do so with much patience. Next he urges the reader to first read his previous book, On the Fourfold Root of Sufficient Reason, which serves as an introduction to this book and assures the reader that he will feel much gratitude toward him for his advice. He then states that the reader will profit even more if he is familiar with the magnificent work of Kant and the divine Plato.

  He notes that he has, however, discovered grave errors in Kant, which he discusses in an appendix (which should also be read

  first), and lastly notes that those readers familiar with the

  Upanishads will be prepared best of all to comprehend his book.

  And, finally, he remarks (quite correctly) that the reader must be growing
angry and impatient with his presumptuous, immodest,

  and time-consuming requests. How odd that this most personal of philosophic writers should have lived so impersonally.

  In addition to personal references inserted into his work,

  Schopenhauer reveals much about himself in an autobiographical document with a title written in Greek,

  (About

  Myself), a manuscript shrouded in mystery and controversy whose strange story goes like this:

  Late in his life there gathered around Arthur a very small

  circle of enthusiasts, or "evangelists," whom he tolerated but neither respected nor liked. These acquaintances often heard him speak of "About Myself," an autobiographical journal in which he had been jotting observations about himself for the previous thirty years. Yet after his death something strange happened: "About

  Myself" was nowhere to be found. After searching in vain,

  Schopenhauer's followers confronted Wilhelm Gwinner, the

  executor of Schopenhauer's will, about the missing document.

  Gwinner informed them that "About Myself" no longer existed; as Schopenhauer had instructed him he had burned it immediately

  after his death.

  Yet a short time later the same Wilhelm Gwinner wrote the

  first biography of Arthur Schopenhauer, and in it Schopenhauer's evangelists insisted they recognized sections of the "About

  Myself" document either in direct quotes or in paraphrase. Had Gwinner copied the manuscript before burning it? Or not burned it all and instead plundered it for use in his biography? Controversy swirled for decades, and ultimately another Schopenhauer scholar reconstituted the document from Gwinner's book and from other

  of Schopenhauer's writings and published the forty-seven—

  page

  at the end of the four-volume Nachschlass

  (Manuscript Remains). "About Me" is an odd reading experience

  because each paragraph is followed by a description of its

  Byzantine provenance, often longer than the text itself.

  Why was it that Arthur Schopenhauer never had a job? The

  story of Arthur's kamikaze strategy for obtaining a position at the university is another one of those quirky anecdotes included in every biographical account of Schopenhauer's life. In 1820, at the age of thirty-two, he was offered his first teaching job, a