The Schopenhauer Cure

by Irvin Yalom

  After lunch Schopenhauer habitually took a long walk, often carrying on an audible monologue or a conversation with his dog which elicited jeers from children. He spent evenings reading alone in his rooms, never receiving visitors. There is no evidence of romantic relationships during his years in Frankfurt, and in 1831, at the age of forty-three, he wrote in “About Me,” “The risk of living without work on a small income can be undertaken only in celibacy.”

  He never saw his mother after their break when he was thirty-one, but twelve years later, in 1813, they began to exchange a few business-related letters until her death in 1835. Once when he was ill, his mother wrote a rare personal comment: “Two months in your room without seeing a single person, that is not good, my son, and saddens me. A man cannot and should not isolate himself in that manner.”

  Occasional letters passed back and forth between Arthur and his sister, Adele, in which she again and again tried to move closer to her brother, all the while offering reassurances that she would never make demands on him. But he repeatedly backed away. Adele, who never married, lived in great despair. When he told her of moving from Berlin to escape cholera, she wrote back that she would have welcomed getting the cholera which would have put an end to her misery. But Arthur pulled away even farther, absolutely refusing to be drawn into her life and her depression. After Arthur left home, they saw each other only once, in 1840, in a brief and unsatisfactory meeting, and Adele died nine years later.

  Money was a continual source of concern throughout Schopenhauer’s life. His mother left her small estate to Adele, and Adele died with virtually no remaining estate. He tried, in vain, to get a job as a translator, and until the very last years of his life his books neither sold nor were reviewed by the press.

  In short, Arthur lived without any of the comforts or rewards that his culture held so necessary to equilibrium, even to survival. How did he do it? What price did he pay? These, as we shall see, were the secrets he confided to “About Me.”

  32

  * * *

  The monuments, the ideas left behind by beings like me are my greatest pleasure in life. Without books I would long ago have been in despair.

  * * *

  Julius entered the group room the following week to an odd scene. The members, sprawled in their seats, were intently studying Philip’s parable. Stuart had placed his copy on a clipboard and underlined as he read. Having forgotten his copy, Tony was reading over Pam’s shoulder.

  Rebecca, with a hint of exasperation in her voice, began the meeting: “I’ve read this with due diligence.” She held up Philip’s handout, then folded it and put it in her purse. “I’ve given it enough time, Philip, in fact, too much time, and now I’d like you to disclose the relevance of this text to me or the group or Julius.”

  “I think it would be a richer exercise if the class discussed it first,” responded Philip.

  “Class? That’s what this feels like—a class assignment. Is this the way you do counseling, Philip? she asked, snapping her purse shut. “Like a teacher in a classroom? This is not why I’m here; I came for treatment, not for adult education.”

  Philip took no note of Rebecca’s huffiness. “At best there exists only a vague boundary between education and therapy. The Greeks—Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics and Epicureans—all believed that education and reason were the tools needed to combat human suffering. Most philosophical counselors consider education to be the foundation of therapy. Almost all ascribe to Leibniz’s motto Caritas sapientis meaning ‘wisdom and care.’” Philip turned toward Tony. “Leibniz was a German philosopher of the seventeenth century.”

  “I’m finding this tedious and presumptuous,” said Pam. “Under the guise of helping Julius, you”—she raised her voice an octave—“Philip, I’m talking to you…” Philip, who had been tranquilly staring upward, jerked upright and turned toward Pam. “First, you pass out this sophomoric assignment and now try to control the group by coyly withholding your interpretation of the passage.”

  “Here you go once again trying to de-ball Philip,” said Gill. “For God sakes, Pam, he’s a professional counselor. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he’ll try to contribute to the group by drawing from his own expertise. Why begrudge him everything?”

  Pam opened her mouth to speak but closed it, seemingly at a loss for words. She stared at Gill, who added: “You asked for straight feedback, Pam. You got it. And no, I’ve not been drinking, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m in my fourteenth day of sobriety—I’ve been meeting with Julius twice a week—he’s turned on the heat, tightened the screws, and got me going to an AA meeting every day, seven days a week, fourteen meetings in fourteen days. I didn’t mention it last week because I wasn’t sure I could stick it out.”

  All the members, save Philip, reacted strongly with nods and congratulations. Bonnie told him she was proud of him. Even Pam managed a “good for you.” Tony said, “Maybe I should join you.” He pointed to his bruised cheek. “My boozing leads to bruising.”

  “Philip, how about you? You got a response to Gill?” asked Julius.

  Philip shook his head. “He’s already had a good bit of support from others. He’s sober, speaking out, gaining strength. Sometimes more support is less.”

  “I like that motto of Leibnitz you cited, Caritas sapientis—wisdom and care,” said Julius. “But I urge you not to forget the ‘caritas’ part. If Gill deserves support, why should you always be last in line? And, what’s more, you’ve got unique information: who else but you can express your feelings about his coming to your defense and confronting Pam on your behalf?”

  “Well said,” responded Philip. “I have mixed feelings. I liked Gill’s support, and at the same time I’m wary of liking it. Rely on others to do battle for you, and your own musculature will atrophy.”

  “Well, I’m going to reveal more of my ignorance,” said Tony, pointing to the handout. “This boat story, Philip—I really don’t understand it. You told us last week you were going to give Julius something comforting, and yet this story about a boat and passengers—I mean, to put it bluntly, I don’t know what the fuck gives here.”

  “Don’t apologize,” said Bonnie. “I told you, Tony, that you almost always speak for me—I’m as confused as you are about this ship and gathering shells.”

  “Me too,” said Stuart. “I don’t get it.”

  “Let me help,” said Pam. “After all, interpreting literature is how I earn a living. First step is to go from the concrete—that is, the ship, the shells, the sheep, and so on—to the abstract. In other words, ask yourself: what does this ship or voyage or harbor represent?”

  “I think the ship stands for death—or the journey toward death,” said Stuart, glancing at his clipboard.

  “Okay,” said Pam. “So, where do you go from there?”

  “Seems to me,” Stuart replied, “the main point is don’t pay so much attention to details on shore that you’ll miss the boat’s sailing.”

  “So,” said Tony, “if you get too caught up in shore stuff—even having a wife and kids—then the boat might sail without you—in other words, you might miss your death. Big deal—is that such a catastrophe?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right, Tony,” said Rebecca, “I also understood the boat to be death, but when you put it that way I see it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t get it either,” said Gill, “but it doesn’t say you’ll miss death; it says you’ll go to it trussed up like the sheep.”

  “Whatever,” said Rebecca, “but this still doesn’t feel like therapy.” She turned to Julius, “This is supposed to be for you. Do you find any comfort in this?”

  “I’ll repeat what I said last time to you last week, Philip. What I get is the knowledge that you want to give me something to ease my ordeal. And also that you shy away from doing that directly. Instead, you choose a less personal approach. Sets a future agenda, I think, for you to work on expressing your caring in
a more personal way.

  “As for the content,” Julius continued, “I’m confused also, but this is how I understand it: since the boat might sail at any time—that is, since death could call us at any point—we should avoid getting too attached to the things of the world. Perhaps it warns us that deep attachments would make dying more painful. Is this the message of consolation you’re trying to give me, Philip?”

  “I think,” Pam interjected before Philip could answer, “that it falls into place better if you think of the ship and the journey not as representing death but what we might call the authentic life. In other words, we live more authentically if we keep focused on the fundamental fact of sheer being, the miracle of existence itself. If we focus on “being,” then we won’t get so caught up in the diversions of life, that is, the material objects on the island, that we lose sight of existence itself.”

  A brief silence. Heads turned toward Philip.

  “Exactly,” responded Philip with a hint of enthusiasm in his tone. “My view exactly. The idea is that one has to beware of losing oneself in life’s distractions. Heidegger called it falling or being absorbed in the everydayness of life. Now, I know you can’t abide Heidegger, Pam, but I don’t believe his misguided politics should be permitted to deprive us of the gift of his philosophical insights. So, to paraphrase Heidegger, falling into everydayness results in one’s becoming unfree—like the sheep.

  “Like Pam,” Philip continued, “I believe the parable warns us against attachment and urges us to stay attuned to the miracle of being—not to worry about how things are but to be in a state of wonderment that things are—that things exist at all.”

  “Now I think I’m getting your meaning,” said Bonnie, “but it’s cold, abstract. What comfort is there in that? For Julius, for anyone?”

  “For me, there is comfort in the idea that my death informs my life.” Philip spoke with uncharacteristic fervor as he continued, “There is comfort in the idea of not allowing my core being to be devoured by trivialities, by insignificant successes or failures, by what I possess, by concerns about popularity—who likes me, who doesn’t. For me, there is comfort in the state of remaining free to appreciate the miracle of being.”

  “Your voice sounds energized,” said Stuart, “but I also think this seems steely and bloodless. It’s cold consolation. Makes me shiver.”

  The members were puzzled. They sensed that Philip had something of value to offer but, as usual, were confused by his bizarre manner.

  After a brief silence Tony asked Julius, “Does this work for you? I mean in terms of offering you something. Does it help you in some way?”

  “It doesn’t work for me, Tony. Yet, as I’ve said,” he turned toward Philip, “you’re reaching out to give me something that works for you. I’m aware, too, this is the second time you’ve offered me something I’ve not been able to make use of, and that must be frustrating for you.”

  Philip nodded but remained silent.

  “A second time! I don’t recall another time,” said Pam. “Did it happen when I was away?”

  Several heads shook no. No one else remembered a first time, and Pam asked Julius, “Are there blanks that need to filled in here?”

  “There’s old history between Philip and me,” said Julius. “A lot of the puzzlement today could be removed by relating this history. But I feel it’s up to you, Philip. When you’re ready.”

  “I’m willing for all to be discussed,” said Philip. “You have carte blanche.”

  “No, what I mean is, it’s not for me to do that. To paraphrase your words, it would be a richer exercise if you would discuss it yourself. I think it’s your call and your responsibility.?”

  Philip tilted his head upward, closed his eyes, and, using the same tone and manner as when reciting a memorized passage, began: “Twnety-five years ago I consulted Julius for what is now termed sexual addiction. I was predatory, I was driven, I was insatiable, I thought of little else. My whole being was caught up in the pursuit of women—new women, always new women, because once I bedded a woman I rapidly lost interest in her. It was as though the epicenter of my existence was that moment of ejaculating inside the woman. And once that happened I had a brief respite from my compulsion, but soon—sometimes only hours later—I felt the call to prowl again. Sometimes I had two or three women in a day. I was desperate. I wanted to get my mind out of the trough, to think about other things, to touch some of the great minds of the past. I was educated in chemistry then, but I yearned for real wisdom. I sought help, the best and most expensive available, and met with Julius weekly, sometimes twice weekly, for three years, without benefit.”

  Philip paused. The group stirred. Julius asked, “How is this going for you, Philip? Can you go farther, or is it enough for one day?”

  “I’m fine,” replied Philip.

  “With your closed eyes it’s hard to read you,” said Bonnie. “I’m wondering if you keep them closed because you fear disapproval.”

  “No, I close my eyes to look within and collect my thoughts. And surely I’ve made it clear that only my own approval matters to me.”

  Again there settled onto the group that strange otherworldly sense of Philip’s untouchability. Tony tried to dispel it by whispering loudly, “Nice try, Bonnie.”

  Without opening his eyes, Philip continued. “Not too long after I gave up therapy with Julius, I inherited a fair sum of money from the maturation of a trust account my father had set up for me. The money enabled me to leave my profession as a chemist and devote myself to reading all of Western philosophy—in part because of my enduring interest in that field, but primarily because I believed that somewhere in the collective wisdom of the world’s great thinkers I would find a cure for my condition. I felt at home in philosophy and soon realized that I had found my true calling. I applied and was accepted in the philosophy doctoral program at Columbia. It was at that time that Pam had the misfortune of crossing my path.”

  Philip, eyes still closed, paused and inhaled deeply. All eyes were on him except for furtive glances toward Pam, who stared at the floor.

  “As time went by I chose to concentrate my attention on the trinity of truly great philosophers: Plato, Kant, and Schopenhauer. But, in the final analysis, it was only Schopenhauer who offered me help. Not only were his words pure gold for me, but I sensed a strong affinity with his person. As a rational being I cannot accept the idea of reincarnation in its vulgar sense, but if I had lived before it would have been as Arthur Schopenhauer. Simply knowing of his existence has tempered the ache of my isolation.

  “After reading and rereading his work for several years, I found that I had overcome my sexual problems. By the time I received my doctorate, my father’s bequest was exhausted and I needed to earn a living. I taught at a few places around the country and a few years ago moved back to San Francisco to accept a position at Coastal University. Eventually I lost interest in teaching because I never found students worthy of me or my subject, and then, about three years ago, it occurred to me that, since philosophy had healed me, I might be able to use philosophy to heal others. I enrolled in and completed a counseling curriculum and then began a small clinical practice. And that brings me to the present.”

  “Julius was useless to you,” said Pam, “yet you contacted him again. Why?”

  “I didn’t. He contacted me.”

  Pam muttered, “Oh, yeah, right out of the blue Julius contacted you?”

  “No, no, Pam,” said Bonnie, “that part is true; Julius confirmed it when you were away. I can’t fill you in on it because I’ve never really understood it myself.”

  “Right, let me come in here,” said Julius. “I’ll reconstruct it as best I can. The first few days after receiving the bad news from my doctor I was staggered and tried to find a way to come to terms with having a lethal cancer. One evening I got into a very morose mood as I thought about the meaning of my life. I got to thinking about being destined to slip into nothingness and remaining there forev
er. And that being so, then what difference did anyone or any activity make?

  “I can’t remember the whole chain of my morbid thinking, but I knew I had to clutch some kind of meaning or I would drown on dry land, then and there. As I surveyed my life, I realized that I had experienced meaning—and that it always involved stepping outside of myself, helping others to live and to fulfill themselves. More clearly than ever before I realized the centrality of my work as a therapist and then I thought for hours about those I had helped; all my patients, old and new, paraded through my imagination.

  “Many I knew I had helped but had I had an enduring impact on their lives? That was the question that plagued me. I think I told the rest of group before Pam returned that I had to know the answer to this question so badly I decided to contact some of my old patients to find out whether I had truly made a difference. Seems crazy, I know.

  “Then, while browsing through the charts of my long-ago patients, I also began thinking of those I had failed to help. What had happened to them? I wondered. Could I have done more? And then the thought, the wishful thought, arose that maybe some of my failures were late bloomers, maybe they had gotten some delayed benefit from our work together. Then my eye fell upon Philip’s chart, and I remember saying to myself, ‘If you want failure, there is failure—there is someone you really didn’t help—you couldn’t make even a dent in his problems.’ From that moment on, I had an irresistible impulse to contact Philip and find out what happened to him, to see if, in some way, I had been useful to him after all.”

  “So that’s how it came about that you called him,” said Pam. “But how did it come about that he entered the group?”