The Schopenhauer Cure

by Irvin Yalom

  Praise ultimately appeared in the press. Great Britain, Arthur’s almost-birthplace, was the first to honor him with a stunning review of all of his work (titled “Iconoclasm in German Philosophy”) in the prestigious Westminister Review. Shortly afterward this review was translated and widely read in Germany. Similar articles quickly appeared in France and Italy, and Schopenhauer’s life changed dramatically.

  Curious visitors flocked to the Englisher Hof to eye the philosopher at lunch. Richard Wagner sent him the original libretto of the Ring of the Nibelungs with a dedication. Universities began to teach his work, learned societies issued invitations for membership, eulogistic letters arrived in the post, his previous books reappeared in bookstores, townspeople greeted him on his walks, and pet stores had a run on poodles similar to Schopenhauer’s.

  Schopenhauer’s rapture and delight were very evident. He wrote, “If a cat is stroked it purrs; and just as inevitably if a man is praised, sweet rapture and delight are reflected in his face, and expressed the hope” that “the morning sun of my fame will gild with its first rays the evening of my life and dispel its gloom.” When the eminent sculptress Elisabeth Ney visited Frankfurt for four weeks to do a bust of him, Arthur purred, “She works all day at my place. When I get home we have coffee together, we sit together on the sofa, and I feel as if I were married.”

  Not since the best years of his life—the two years spent as a child in Le Havre with the de Blesimaire family—had Arthur spoken so tenderly and contentedly of domestic life.

  40

  * * *

  At the end of his life, no man, if he be sincere and in possession of his faculties, would ever wish to go though it again. Rather than this, he will much prefer to choose complete nonexistence.

  * * *

  Members filed in for the penultimate meeting with contrasting feelings: some felt sorrow about the looming end of the group, some thought about personal work they had left undone, some scanned Julius’s face as though to imprint it in their minds, and all were enormously curious about Pam’s response to Philip’s revelations of the previous meeting.

  But Pam did not offer satisfaction; instead she extracted a sheet of paper from her purse, slowly unfolded it, and read aloud:

  A carpenter does not come up to me and say, “listen to me discourse about the art of carpentry.” Instead he makes a contract for a house and builds it…. Do the same thing yourself: eat like a man; drink like a man…. get married, have children, take part in civic life, learn how to put up with insults, and tolerate other people.

  Then, turning to Philip, she said, “Written by…guess who?”

  Philip shrugged.

  “Your man, Epictetus. That’s why I bring it here. I know you revere him—you brought Julius one of his fables. Why am I quoting him? I’m merely speaking to the point raised by Tony and Stuart and others last week that you’ve never been ‘in life.’ I believe that you selectively pick and choose various passages from philosophers to support your position and—”

  Gill interrupted, “Pam, this is our next-to-last meeting. If this is another one of your get-Philip tirades, I don’t personally feel I’ve got time for it. Do what you tell me to do. Get real and talk about your feelings. You must have had strong reactions to what Philip said about you last meeting.”

  “No, no, hear me out,” Pam said quickly. “This is not ‘get-Philip’ stuff. My motivations are different. The iron is cooling. I’m trying to say something helpful to Philip. I think he’s compounded his life avoidance by selectively gathering support from philosophy. He draws from Epictetus when he needs him and overlooks the same Epictetus when he doesn’t.”

  “That’s a great point, Pam,” said Rebecca. “You’re putting your finger on something important. You know, I bought a copy of a little paperback called the Wisdom of Schopenhauer at a used-book store and have been skimming it the last couple of nights. It’s all over the place: some of it’s fabulous and some outrageous. There’s a passage I read yesterday that floored me. He says that if we go into any cemetery, knock on the tombstones, and ask the spirits dwelling there if they’d like to live again, every one of them would emphatically refuse.” She turned to Philip. “You believe this?” Without waiting for him to respond, Rebecca continued, “Well, I don’t. He’s not speaking for me. I’d like to check it out. Could we get a vote here?”

  “I’d choose to live again. Life’s a bitch, but it’s a kick too,” said Tony. A chorus of “me too” spread around the group. “I hesitate for one reason,” explained Julius. “The idea of once again bearing the pain of my wife’s death; but, even so, I’d say yes. I love being alive.” Only Philip held silent.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I agree with Schopenhauer. Life is suffering from start to finish. It would have been better if life, all life, had never been.”

  “Better not have been for whom?” asked Pam. “For Schopenhauer, you mean? Apparently not for the folks in this room.”

  “Schopenhauer is hardly alone in his position. Consider the millions of Buddhists. Remember that the first of the Buddha’s four noble truths is that life is suffering.”

  “Is that a serious answer, Philip? What’s happened to you? When I was a student you lectured brilliantly on modes of philosophical argument. What kind of argument is this? Truth by proclamation? Truth by appeal to authority? That’s the way of religion, and yet surely you follow Schopenhauer in his atheism. And has it occurred to you that Schopenhauer was chronically depressed and that the Buddha lived in a place and at a time when human suffering—pestilence, starvation—was rampant and that, indeed, life then was unmitigated suffering for most? Has it occurred—”

  “What kind of philosophic argument is that?” retorted Philip. “Every half-way literate sophomore student knows the difference between genesis and validity.”

  “Wait, wait,” interjected Julius. “Let’s pause for a minute and check in.” He scanned the group. “How are the rest of you guys feeling about the last few minutes?”

  “Good stuff,” said Tony. “They were really duking it out. But with padded gloves.”

  “Right, better than silent glares and hidden daggers,” said Gill.

  “Yeah, I liked it a lot better,” agreed Bonnie. “Sparks were flying between Pam and Philip but cooler sparks.”

  “Me, too,” said Stuart, “until the last couple of minutes.”

  “Stuart,” said Julius, “in your first meeting here you said your wife accused you of talking in telegrams.”

  “Yep, you’re stingy today. A few more words won’t cost you any more,” said Bonnie.

  “Right. Maybe I’m regressing because…you know, this being the next-to-last meeting. Can’t be sure—I don’t feel sad; as usual I have to infer my feelings. Here’s something I do know, Julius. I love your taking care of me, calling on me, staying on my case. How’s that?”

  “That’s great, and I’ll keep doing it. You said you liked Pam and Philip talking ‘until the last couple of minutes.’ So, what about those last minutes?”

  “At first it felt good-natured—more like a family squabble. But that last comment by Philip—that had a nasty edge to it. I mean the comment starting with” Every halfway literate sophomore student. “I didn’t like that, Philip. It was a put-down. If you said that to me, I’d have felt insulted. And threatened—I’m not even sure what philosophical arguement means.”

  “I agree with Stuart, “said Rebecca. “Tell me, Philip, what were you feeling? Did you want to insult Pam?”

  “Insult her? No, not at all. That was the last thing I wanted to do,” responded Philip. “I felt…uh…uplifted or released—not sure of the right word—by her saying the iron was no longer red-hot. Let’s see, what else? I knew that one of her motives in bringing in the quote by Epictetus was to trap and confound me. That was obvious. But I kept in mind what Julius said to me when I brought in that fable for him—that he was pleased by the effort and the caring behind the act.”

  “So,” said Ton
y, “let me pull a Julius. Here’s what I hear: you intended one thing but your words resulted in another thing entirely.”

  Philip looked quizzical.

  “I mean,” said Tony, “you said that insulting Pam was the last thing in the world you wanted to do. Yet that was exactly what you did, wasn’t it?”

  Philip, reluctantly, nodded agreement.

  “So,” Tony continued, sounding like a triumphant attorney in cross-examination, “you need to get your intentions and your behavior on the same page. You need to get them congruent—do I have the word right?” Tony looked at Julius who nodded his head. “And that’s why you should be in therapy. Congruence is what therapy is all about.”

  “Well argued,” said Philip. “I have no counterargument. You’re right. That is why I need therapy.”

  “What?” Tony could not believe his ears. He glanced at Julius, who gave him an “atta boy” nod.

  “Catch me, I’m going to faint,” said Rebecca who slumped back in her chair.

  “Me, too,” echoed Bonnie and Gill, slumping back as well.

  Philip looked around at the sight of half the group in mock unconsciousness and, for the first time since entering the group, grinned.

  Philip ended the group levity by returning to the issue of his personal approach to counseling. “Rebecca’s discussion of Schopenhauer’s tombstone comment implies that my approach or any approach based on his point of view is invalid. Lest you forget, I struggled for years with a serious affliction which Julius failed to cure, and I was only healed by patterning my path upon Schopenhauer’s.”

  Julius instantly supported Philip. “I don’t deny you’ve done good work. Most therapists today would say it’s not possible to overcome a severe sex addiction on your own. Contemporary treatment involves long-term work—I mean many years—in a structured recovery program consisting of individual therapy and groups meeting multiple times a week often along twelve-step principles. But no such recovery program existed back then, and, frankly, I doubt whether you would have found it compatible.

  “So,” Julius continued, “I want to go on record as saying that your feat is remarkable: the techniques by which you controlled your runaway drives worked—better than anything I offered, even though I gave it my best shot.”

  “I’ve never thought otherwise,” said Philip.

  “But, here’s a question, Philip, is there a possibility your methods are now superannuated?”

  “Super…what?” asked Tony.

  “Superannuated,” whispered Philip, who was sitting next to Tony—super (Latin for beyond) plus annus (years)—in other words, outmoded, obsolete.”

  Tony nodded thanks.

  “The other day,” Julius continued, “when I was wondering how to bring this home to you, an image came to mind. Imagine an ancient city that built a high wall to protect it from the wild torrents of an adjacent river. Centuries later, though the river had long dried up, the city still invested considerable resources in maintaining that wall.”

  “You mean,” said Tony, “continuing to use some solution even when the problem had gone away—like wearing a bandage long after the cut had healed.”

  “Precisely,” said Julius. “Maybe the bandage is a better metaphor—right to the point.”

  “I don’t agree,” Philip addressed both Julius and Tony, “that my wound is healed or that containment is no longer necessary. For proof one need only look at my extreme discomfort levels in this group.”

  “That’s not a good measure,” said Julius. “You’ve had little experience with intimacy, with expressing feelings directly, with getting feedback and disclosing yourself. This is new for you; you’ve been in seclusion for years, and I toss you into this high-powered group. Of course that’s going to feel uncomfortable. But what I’m really referring to is the overt problem, the sexual compulsion—and perhaps that’s gone. You’re older, been through a lot, maybe you’ve entered the land of gonadal tranquillity. Nice place, good sunny climate. I’ve dwelled there comfortably for many years.”

  “I would say,” Tony added, “that Schopenhauer has cured you, but now you need to be saved from the Schopenhauer cure.”

  Philip opened his mouth to respond but then closed it and pondered Tony’s statement.

  “Another thing,” Julius added, “when you think about your stress in the group, don’t forget the heavy-duty pain and guilt you’ve faced here as a result of a chance encounter with a person from your past.”

  “I’ve heard nothing about guilt from Philip,” said Pam.

  Philip responded instantly, facing Pam. “If I had known then what I know now about the years of pain you’ve suffered, I would never have done what I did. As I said before, you were unlucky to have crossed my path. The person I was then did not think of consequences. Automatic pilot—that person was on automatic pilot.”

  Pam nodded and caught his glance. Philip held it for a moment and then turned his attention back to Julius. “I grasp your point about the magnitude of the interpersonal stress in this group, but I insist that is only part of the picture. And it is here that our basic orientations are at odds. I agree there is stress in relationships with other beings. And possibly reward as well—I’ll grant you that last point though I myself have never known it. Nonetheless, I’m convinced that in the very state of existing there is tragedy and suffering. Permit me to cite Schopenhauer for only two minutes.”

  Without waiting for a response, Philip, staring upward, began reciting:

  In the first place a man never is happy but spends his whole life in striving after something which he thinks will make him so; he seldom attains his goal and, when he does it is only to be disappointed: he is mostly shipwrecked in the end, and comes into harbor with masts and riggings gone. And then it is all one whether he has been happy or miserable; for his life was never anything more than a present moment, always vanishing; and now it is over.

  After a long silence Rebecca said, “That sends shivers up my back.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Bonnie.

  “I know I’m sounding like an uptight English professor,” said Pam, addressing the entire group, “but I urge you, don’t be misled by rhetoric. That quote adds nothing of substance to what Philip has been saying all along; it only says it more persuasively. Schopenhauer was a brilliant stylist and wrote the best prose of any philosopher. Except for Nietzsche, of course—no one wrote better than Nietzsche.”

  “Philip, I want to respond to your comment about our basic orientations,” said Julius. “I don’t believe we’re as far apart as you think. I don’t disagree with much that you and Schopenhauer have said about the tragedy of the human condition. Where you go east and I go west is when we turn to the question of what to do about it. How shall we live? How to face our mortality? How to live with the knowledge that we are simply life-forms, thrown into an indifferent universe, with no preordained purpose?

  “As you know,” Julius continued, “though I’m more interested in philosophy than most therapists, I’m no expert. Yet, I’m aware of other bold thinkers who have not flinched from these raw facts of life and who have arrived at entirely different solutions than Schopenhauer. I’m thinking particularly of Camus, Sartre, and Nietzsche, who all advocate life engagement rather than Schopenhauer’s pessimistic resignation. The one I know best is Nietzsche. You know, when I first received my diagnosis and was in a state of panic, I opened Thus Spoke Zarathustra and was both calmed and inspired—especially by his life-celebratory comment that we should live life in such a manner that we’d say yes if we were offered the opportunity to live our life again and again in precisely the same manner.”

  “How did that relieve you?” asked Philip.

  “I looked at my life and felt that I had lived it right—no regrets from inside though, of course, I hated the outside events that took my wife from me. It helped me decide how I should live my remaining days: I should continue doing exactly what had always offered me satisfaction and meaning.”

>   “I didn’t know that about you and Nietzsche, Julius,” said Pam. “It makes me feel even closer to you because Zarathustra, melodramatic as it is, remains one of my absolutely favorite books. And I’ll tell you my favorite quote from it. It’s when Zarathustra says, ‘Was that life? Well, then, once again!’ I love people who embrace life and get turned off by those who shrink away from it—I’m thinking of Vijay in India. Next ad I run in a personal column maybe I’ll post that Nietzsche quote and the Schopenhauer tombstone quote side-by-side and ask respondents to choose between them. That would winnow out the nay-sayers.

  “I have another thought I want to share.” Pam turned to face Philip. “I guess it’s obvious that after the last meeting I thought about you a lot. I’m teaching a course on biography, and in my reading last week I ran across an amazing passage in Erik Erikson’s biography of Martin Luther. It goes something like this: ‘Luther elevated his own neurosis to that of a universal patient-hood and then tried to solve for the world what he could not solve for himself.’ I believe that Schopenhauer, like Luther, seriously fell into this error and that you’ve followed his lead.”

  “Perhaps,” responded Philip in a conciliatory fashion, “neurosis is a social construct, and we may need a different kind of therapy and a different kind of philosophy for different temperaments—one approach for those who are replenished by closeness to others and another approach for those who choose the life of the mind. Consider, for example, the large numbers who are drawn to Buddhist meditation retreats.”

  “That remind me of something I’ve been meaning to say to you, Philip,” said Bonnie. “I think your view of Buddhism misses something. I’ve attended Buddhist retreats where the focus has been directed outwards—on loving kindness and connectivity—not on solitude. A good Buddhist can be active, in the world, even politically active—all in the service of loving others.”

  “So it’s becoming clearer,” said Julius, “that your selectivity error involves human relationships. To give another example: you’ve cited the views about death or solitude of several philosophers but never speak of what these same philosophers—and I’m thinking of the Greek philosophers—have said about the joys of philia, of friendship. I remember one of my own supervisors quoting me a passage from Epicurus saying that friendship was the most important ingredient for a happy life and that eating without a close friend was living the life of a lion or a wolf. And Aristotle’s definition of a friend—one who promotes the better and the sounder in the other—comes close to my idea of the ideal therapist.”