by Irvin Yalom
Julius nodded.
“I remember being very attached to our therapy. It became another compulsion, but unfortunately it didn’t replace the sexual compulsion but merely coexisted with it. I remember anticipating each hour with eagerness and yet ending with disappointment. It’s difficult to remember much of what we did—I think we strove to understand my compulsion from the standpoint of my life history. Figuring it out—we always tried to figure it out. Yet every solution seemed suspect to me. No hypothesis was well-argued or well-grounded, and, worse, not one had the slightest impact on my compulsion.
“And it was a compulsion. I knew that. And I knew that I had to stop cold turkey. It took me a long time, but eventually I realized you didn’t know how to help me and I lost faith in our work together. I recall that you spent inordinate amounts of time exploring my relationships—with others and especially with you. That never made sense to me. It didn’t then. It still doesn’t. As time went by, it became painful to meet with you, painful to keep on exploring our relationship as though it were real or enduring or anything other than what it truly was: a purchase of service.” Philip stopped and looked at Julius with his palms up as though to say, “You wanted it straight—there it is.”
Julius was stunned. Someone else’s voice answered for him: “That’s straight, all right. Thanks, Philip. Now, the rest of your story. What’s happened to you since?”
Philip placed his palms together, rested his chin on his fingertips, stared up at the ceiling to collect his thoughts, and continued. “Well, let’s see. I’ll start with work. My expertise in developing hormonal agents to block insect reproduction had important implications for the company, and my salary escalated. But I grew profoundly bored with chemistry. Then, at age thirty, one of my father’s trust funds matured and was turned over to me. It was a gift of freedom. I had enough to live on for several years, and I canceled my subscriptions to the chemistry journals, dropped out of the work force, and turned my attention to what I really wanted in life—the pursuit of wisdom.
“I was still miserable, still anxious, still sexually driven. I tried other therapists, but none helped me any more than you had. One therapist, who had studied with Jung, suggested I needed more than psychological therapy. He said that for an addict like me 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 clichés 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
* * *
Talent is 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 langua
ges, 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
* * *
A happy 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 had ever 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 lady was 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 the Journal of the American Psychiatric Association on “The Psychiatrist Confronting Mortality.” Or maybe something commercial for the Sunday Times Magazine. He could do it. Or why not a book? Something like Autobiography 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.�
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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 something from him? And, anyway, whatever it is I crave, he does not have it to give.
“He does not have it to give”—how many times have I said that to how many patients—about husbands or wives or fathers. Yet I can’t let Philip go, this unrelenting, callous, ungiving man. Shall I write an ode about the obligation patients owe in later years to their therapists?
And why does it matter so much? And why, of all my patients, choose to contact him? I still don’t know. I found a clue in my case notes—the feeling that I was talking to a young phantasm of myself. Perhaps there’s more than a trace of Philip in me, in the me who in my teens and twenties and thirties was whipped around by hormones. I thought I knew what he was going through, I thought that I had an inside track to healing him. Is that why I tried so hard? Why he got more attention and energy from me than most of my other patients combined? In every therapist’s practice, there is always some patient who consumes a disproportionate amount of the therapist’s energy and attention—Philip was that person for me for three years.
Julius returned home that evening to a cold dark house. His son, Larry, had spent the last three days with him but that morning had returned to Baltimore, where he did neurobiological research at Johns Hopkins. Julius was almost relieved that Larry had left—the anguished look on his face and his loving but clumsy efforts to comfort his father had brought more sorrow than serenity. He started to phone Marty, one of his colleagues in his support group, but felt too despondent, hung up the phone, and instead turned on his computer to enter the notes scribbled on the crumpled Starbucks paper bag. “You have e-mail,” greeted him, and, to his surprise, there was a message from Philip. He read it eagerly: