The Schopenhauer Cure

by Irvin D. Yalom

after the group ends--is that real or just a phony way of

  softening the let-down? It just muddies the waters. Keeps

  Tony hanging."

  "Yep, right on!" said Tony. "That statement a couple

  weeks ago about our possibly continuing sometime in the

  future was big for me. I'm trying to keep everything on an

  even keel so I can keep that possibility open."

  "And," said Julius, "in so doing, you forfeit the

  opportunity of doing some work on yourself while this

  group and I are still available to you."

  "You know, Tony," said Rebecca, "getting laid is not

  the most important thing, not the only thing, in the world."

  "I know, I know, that's why I'm bringing this up

  today. Give me a break."

  After a short silence Julius said, "So, Tony, keep

  working on this."

  Tony faced Pam. "Let's do what Gill said--clear the

  air--as adults. What do you want?"

  "What I want is to go back to where we were before.

  I want you to forgive me for embarrassing you by springing

  the confession. You're a dear man, Tony, and I care for

  you. The other day I overheard my undergraduate students

  using this new term, fuck-buddies --perhaps that's what we were and it was fun then but it's a bad idea now or in the

  future--the group takes precedence. Let's concentrate on

  working on our stuff."

  "Okay by me. I'm up for it."

  "So, Tony," said Julius, "you're liberated--you're

  now free to talk about all the thoughts you've been holding

  back lately--about yourself, Pam, or the group."

  In the remaining meetings the liberated Tony returned to

  his instrumental role in the group. He urged Pam to deal

  with her feelings about Philip. When the potential

  breakthrough following her praise of Philip as a teacher

  never materialized, he pressed her to work harder on why

  she kept her resentment of Philip red-hot yet could find

  forgiveness for others in the group.

  "I've already said," Pam answered, "that obviously

  it's much easier to forgive others, like Rebecca, or Stuart,

  or Gill, because I was not a personal victim of their offense.

  My life wasn't altered by what they did. But there's more. I

  can forgive others here because they've shown remorse

  and, above all, because they've changed.

  "I've changed. I do believe, now, it's possible to

  forgive the person but not the act. I think I might be

  capable of forgiving a changed Philip. But he hasn't

  changed. You ask why I can forgive Julius--well, look at him: he never stops giving. And, as I'm sure you've all

  figured out, he's been giving us a final gift of love: he's

  teaching us how to die. I knew the old Philip, and I can

  attest he's the same man you see sitting here. If anything,

  he's colder and more arrogant."

  After a short pause she added, "And an apology from

  him wouldn't hurt."

  "Philip, not changed?" said Tony. "I think you're

  seeing what you want to see. All those women he used to

  chase-- that's changed." Tony turned to Philip. "You

  haven't really spelled it out, but it's different. Right?"

  Philip nodded. "My life has been very different--I

  have been with no woman in twelve years."

  "You don't call that change?" Tony asked Pam.

  "Or reform?" said Gill.

  Before Pam could respond, Philip interjected,

  "Reform? No, that's inaccurate. The idea of reformation

  played no role. Let me clarify: I have not changed my life,

  or, as it's been put here, my sex addiction, by virtue of

  some moral resolution. I changed because my life was

  agony--no longer bearable."

  "How did you take that final step? Was there a last—

  straw event?" asked Julius.

  Philip hesitated as he considered whether to answer

  Julius. Then he inhaled deeply and began, speaking

  mechanically as though wound up with a key: "One night I

  was driving home after a long orgy with an exceptionally

  beautiful woman and thought that now, if ever in my life, I

  had gotten all I wanted. I had had my surfeit. The aroma of

  sexual juices in the car was overpowering. Everything

  reeked of fetid flesh: the air, my hands, my hair, my

  clothes, my breath. It was as though I had just bathed in a

  tub of female musk. And then, on the horizon of my mind I

  could spot it--desire was gathering strength, readying to

  rear its head again. That was the moment. Suddenly my life made me sick, and I began to vomit. And it was then,"

  Philip turned to Julius, "when your comment about my

  epitaph came to mind. And that was when I realized that Schopenhauer was right: life is forever a torment, and

  desire is unquenchable. The wheel of torment would spin

  forever; I had to find a way to get off the wheel, and it was

  then I deliberately set about patterning my life after his."

  "And it's worked for you all these years?" said

  Julius.

  "Until now, until this group."

  "But you're so much better now, Philip," said

  Bonnie. "You're so much more in touch, so much more

  approachable. I'll tell you the truth--the way you were

  when you first started here...I mean I could never have

  imagined me or anyone else consulting you as a counselor."

  "Unfortunately," Philip responded, "being 'in touch'

  here means that I must share everyone's unhappiness. That

  simply compounds my misery. Tell me, how can this

  'being in touch' possibly be useful? When I was 'in life' I

  was miserable. For the past twelve years I have been a

  visitor to life, an observer of the passing show, and"--

  Philip spread his fingers and raised and lowered his hands

  for emphasis--"I have lived in tranquillity. And now that

  this group has compelled me to once again be 'in life,' I am

  once again in anguish. I mentioned to you my agitation

  after that group meeting a few weeks ago. I have not

  regained my former equanimity."

  "I think there's a flaw in your reasoning, Philip,"

  said Stuart, "and that has to do with your statement that you

  were 'in life.'"

  Bonnie leaped in, "I was going to say the same thing.

  I don't believe you were ever in life, not really in life.

  You've never talked about having a real loving

  relationship. I've heard nothing about male friends, and, as

  for women, you say yourself that you were a predator."

  "That true, Philip?" asked Gill. "Have there never

  been any real relationships?"

  Philip shook his head. "Everyone with whom I've

  interacted has caused me pain."

  "Your parents?" asked Stuart.

  "My father was distant and, I think, chronically

  depressed. He took his own life when I was thirteen. My

  mother died a few years ago, but I had been estranged from

  her for twenty years. I did not attend her funeral."

  "Brothers? Sisters?" asked Tony.

  Philip shook his head. "An only child."

  "You know what comes to my mind?" Tony

  interjected. "When I was a kid, I wouldn't eat most things

  my mother cooked. I'd always say 'I don't like it,' and


  she'd always come back with 'How do you know you don't

  like it if you've never tasted it?' Your take on life reminds

  me of that."

  "Many things," Philip replied, "can be known by

  virtue of pure reason. All of geometry, for example. Or one

  may have some partial exposure to a painful experience and

  extrapolate the whole from that. And one may look about,

  read, observe others."

  "But your main dude, Schopenhauer," said Tony,

  "didn't you say he made a big deal about listening to your

  own body, of relying on--what did you say?--your instant

  experience?"

  "Immediate experience."

  "Right, immediate experience. So wouldn't you say

  you're making a major decision on second-rate,

  secondhand info--I mean info that's not your own

  immediate experience?"

  "Your point is well taken, Tony, but I had my fill of

  direct experience after that 'confession day' session."

  "Again you go back to that session, Philip. It seems

  to have been a turning point," said Julius. "Maybe it's time

  to describe what happened to you that day."

  As before, Philip paused, inhaled deeply, and then

  proceeded to relate, in a methodical manner, his experience

  after the end of that meeting. As he spoke of his agitation

  and his inability to marshal his mind-quieting techniques,

  he grew visibly agitated. Then, as he described how his

  mental flotsam did not drift away but lodged in his mind,

  drops of perspiration glistened on his forehead. And then,

  as Philip spoke of the reemergence of his brutish, rapacious

  self, a pool of wetness appeared in the armpits of his pale

  red shirt and rivulets of sweat dripped from his chin and

  nose and down his neck. The room was very still; everyone

  was transfixed by Philip's leakage of words and of water.

  He paused, took another deep breath, and continued:

  "My thoughts lost their coherence; images flooded pell—

  mell into my mind: memories I had long forgotten. I

  remembered some things about my two sexual encounters

  with Pam. And I saw her face, not her face now but her

  face of fifteen years ago, with a preternatural vividness. It

  was radiant; I wanted to hold it and..." Philip was prepared

  to hold nothing back, not his raw jealousy, not the caveman

  mentality of possessing Pam, not even the image of Tony

  with the Popeye forearms, but he was now overcome by a

  massive diaphoresis, which soaked him to the skin. He

  stood and strode out of the room saying, "I'm drenched; I

  have to leave."

  Tony bolted out after him. Three or four minutes

  later the two of them reentered the room, Philip now

  wearing Tony's San Francisco Giants sweater, and Tony

  stripped to his tight black T-shirt.

  Philip looked at no one but simply collapsed into his

  seat, obviously exhausted.

  "Bring 'em back alive," said Tony.

  "If I weren't married," said Rebecca, "I could fall in

  love with both you guys for what you just did."

  "I'm available," said Tony.

  "No comment," said Philip. "That's it for me

  today--I'm drained."

  "Drained? Your first joke here, Philip. I love it," said

  Rebecca.

  39

  F

  a

  m

  e

  ,

  a

  t

  L

  a

  s

  t

  _________________________

  Somecannot

  loosen

  their own

  chains yet

  can

  nonetheles

  s liberate

  their

  friends.

  --

  Nietzsch

  e

  _________________________

  There are few things that Schopenhauer vilified more than

  the craving for fame. And, yet, oh how he craved it!

  Fame plays an important role in his last

  book, Parerga and Paralipomena, a two-volume

  compilation of incidental observations, essays, and

  aphorisms, completed in 1851, nine years before his death.

  With a profound sense of accomplishment and relief, he

  finished the book and said; "I will wipe my pen and say,

  'the rest is silence.'"

  But finding a publisher was a challenge: none of his

  previous publishers would touch it, having lost too much

  money on his other unread works. Even his magnum

  opus, The World as Will and Representation, had sold only a few copies and received only a single, lack-luster review.

  Finally, one of his loyal "evangelists" persuaded a Berlin

  bookseller to publish a printing of 750 copies in 1853.

  Schopenhauer was to receive ten free copies but no

  royalties.

  The first volume of Parerga and Paralipomena

  contains a striking triplet of essays on how to gain and

  maintain a sense of self-worth. The first essay, "What a

  Man Is," describes how creative thinking results in a sense

  of inner wealth. Such a path provides self-esteem and

  enables one to overcome the basic vacuity and boredom of

  life, which results in a ceaseless pursuit of sexual

  conquests, travel, and games of chance.

  The second essay, "What a Man Has," dissects one

  of the major techniques used to compensate for inner

  poverty: the endless accumulation of possessions, which

  ultimately results in one becoming possessed by one's

  possessions.

  It is the third essay, "What a Man Represents," that

  most clearly expresses his views on fame. A person's self-worth or inner merit is the essential commodity, whereas

  fame is something secondary, the mere shadow of merit. "It

  is not fame but that whereby we merit it that is of true

  value.... a man's greatest happiness is not that posterity

  will know something about him but he himself will develop

  thoughts that deserve consideration and preservation for

  centuries." Self-esteem that is based on inner merit results

  in personal autonomy which cannot be wrested from us--it

  is in our power--whereas fame is never in our power.

  He knew that ablating the desire for fame was not

  easy; he likened it to "extracting an obstinate painful thorn

  from our flesh" and agreed with Tacitus, who wrote, "The

  thirst for fame is the last thing of all to be laid aside by wise men." And he, himself, was never able to lay aside the

  thirst for fame. His writings are permeated with bitterness

  about his lack of success. He regularly searched

  newspapers and journals for some mention, any mention, of

  himself or his work. Whenever he was away on a trip, he

  assigned this scanning task to Julius Frauenstadt, his most

  loyal evangelist. Though he could not stop chaffing at

  being ignored, he ultimately resigned himself to never

  knowing fame in his lifetime. In later introductions to his

  books he explicitly addressed the future generations who

  would discover him.

  And then the unthinkable came. Parerga and

  Paralipomena, the very book in which he described the

  folly of pursuing fame, made him f
amous. In this final

  work he softened his pessimism, staunched his flow of

  jeremiads, and offered wise instruction on how to live.

  Though he never renounced his belief that life is but a

  "mouldy film on the surface of the earth," and "a useless

  disturbing episode in the blissful repose of nothingness," he

  took a more pragmatic path in the Parerga and

  Paralipomena. We have no choice, he said, but to be

  condemned to life and must therefore attempt to live with

  as little pain as possible. (Schopenhauer always viewed

  happiness as a negative state--an absence of suffering--

  and treasured Aristotle's maxim "Not to pleasure but to

  painlessness do the prudent aspire.")

  Accordingly, Parerga and Paralipomena offers

  lessons on how to think independently, how to retain

  skepticism and rationality, how to avoid soothing

  supernatural emollients, how to think well of ourselves,

  keep our stakes low, and avoid attaching ourselves to what

  can be lost. Even though "everyone must act in life's great

  puppet play and feel the wire which sets us into motion,"

  there is, nonetheless, comfort in maintaining the

  philosopher's lofty perspective that, from the aspect of

  eternity, nothing really matters--everything passes.

  Parerga and Paralipomena introduces a new tone.

  While it continues to emphasize the tragic and lamentable

  suffering of existence, it adds the dimension of

  connectivity--that is, through the commonality of our

  suffering, we are inexorably connected to one another. In

  one remarkable passage the great misanthrope displays a

  softer, more indulgent, view of his fellow bipeds.

  The really proper address between one man and another

  should be, instead of Sir, Monsieur,... my fellow

  sufferer. However strange this may sound, it accords

  with the facts, puts the other man in the most correct

  light, and reminds us of that most necessary thing,

  tolerance, patience, forbearance, and love of one's

  neighbor, which everyone needs and each of us

  therefore owes to another.

  A few sentences later he adds a thought that could

  serve well as an opening paragraph in a contemporary

  textbook of psychotherapy.

  We should treat with indulgence every human folly,

  failing, and vice, bearing in mind that what we have

  before us are simply our own failings, follies, and vices.