The Schopenhauer Cure (42 page)

"I've followed his model closely--my primary relationships

are with great thinkers whom I read daily. I avoid cluttering my mind with everydayness, and I have a daily contemplative practice through chess or listening to music--unlike Schopenhauer, I have no ability to play an instrument."

Julius was fascinated by this dialogue. Was Philip unaware

of Pam's rancor? Or frightened of her wrath? And what of Philip's solution to his addiction? At times Julius silently marveled at it; more often he scoffed. And Philip's comment that when he read

Schopenhauer he felt entirely understood
for the first time
felt like a slap in the face.
What am I,
thought Julius,
chopped liver? For three years I worked my ass off trying to understand and empathize with him.
But Julius kept silent; Philip was gradually changing.

Sometimes it is best to store things and return to them at some propitious time in the future.

A couple of weeks later the group raised these issues for him

during a meeting which began with Rebecca and Bonnie both

telling Pam that she had changed--for the worse--since Philip had entered the group. All the sweet, loving, generous parts of her had disappeared from sight, and, though her anger was not as vicious as in her first confrontation with him, still, Bonnie said, it was always present and had frozen into something hard and relentless.

"I've seen Philip change a great deal in the past few

months," said Rebecca, "but you're so stuck--just like you were with John and Earl. Do you want to hold on to your rage forever?"

Others pointed out that Philip had been polite, that he had

responded fully to every one of Pam's inquiries, even to those laced with sarcasm.

"Be polite," said Pam, "then you will be able to manipulate

others. Just like you can work wax only after you have warmed it."

"What?" asked Stuart. Others members looked quizzical.

"I'm just quoting Philip's mentor. That's one of

Schopenhauer's choice tidbits of advice--and that's what I think of Philip's politeness. I never mentioned it here, but when I first considered grad school I considered working on Schopenhauer.

But after several weeks of studying his work and his life, I grew to despise the man so much I dropped the idea."

"So, you identify Philip with Schopenhauer?" said Bonnie.

"
Identify
? Philip
is
Schopenhauer--twin-brained, the living embodiment of that wretched man. I could tell you things about his philosophy and life that would curdle your blood. And, yes, I do believe Philip manipulates instead of relating--and I'll tell you this: it gives me the shivers to think of him indoctrinating others with Schopenhauer's life-hating doctrine."

"Will you ever see Philip as he is now?" said Stuart. "He's

not the same person you knew fifteen years ago. That incident

between you distorts everything; you can't get past it, and you can't forgive him."

"That 'incident'? You make it sound like a hangnail. It's

more than an incident. As for forgiving, don't you think some

things exist that are not forgivable?"

"Because you are unforgiving does not mean that things are

unforgivable," said Philip in a voice uncharacteristically charged with emotion. "Many years ago you and I made a short-term social contract. We offered each other sexual excitement and release. I fulfilled my part of it. I made sure you were sexually gratified, and I did not feel I had further obligation. The truth is that I got something and you got something. I had sexual pleasure and

release, and so did you. I owe you nothing. I explicitly stated in our conversation following that event that I had a pleasurable evening but did not wish to continue our relationship. How could I have been clearer?"

"I'm not talking about clarity," Pam shot back, "I'm talking

about charity--love,
caritas,
concern for others."

"You insist that I share your worldview, that I experience

life the same way as you."

"I only wish you had shared the pain, suffered as I did."

"In that case I have good news for you. You will be pleased

to know that after that incident your friend Molly wrote a letter condemning me to every member of my department as well as to

the university president, provost, and the faculty senate. Despite my receiving a doctorate with distinction and despite my excellent student evaluations, which incidentally included one from you, not one member of the faculty was willing to write me a letter of

support or assist me in any way to find a position. Hence I was never able to get a decent teaching position and for the past years have struggled as a vagabond lecturer at a series of unworthy third-rate schools."

Stuart, working hard on developing his empathic sense,

responded, "So you must feel you've served your time and that

society exacted a heavy price."

Philip, surprised, raised his eyes to look at Stuart. He

nodded. "Not as heavy as the one I exacted from myself."

Philip, exhausted, slumped back in his chair. After a few

moments, eyes turned to Pam, who, unappeased, addressed the

whole group: "Don't you get that I'm not talking about a single past criminal act. I'm talking about an ongoing way of being in the world. Weren't you all chilled just now when Philip described his behavior in our act of love as his 'obligations to our social

contract'? And what about his comments that, despite three years with Julius, he felt understood for the 'first time' only when he read Schopenhauer. You all know Julius. Can you believe that after three years Julius did not understand him?"

The group remained silent. After several moments Pam

turned to Philip. "You want to know the reason you felt understood by Schopenhauer and not Julius? I'll tell you why: because

Schopenhauer is dead, dead over one hundred and forty years, and Julius is alive. And you don't know how to relate to the living."

Philip did not look as though he would respond, and

Rebecca rushed in, "Pam, you're being vicious. What will it take to appease you?"

"Philip's not evil, Pam," said Bonnie, "he's broken. Can't

you see that? Don't you know the difference?"

Pam shook her head and said, "I can't go any farther today."

After a palpably uncomfortable silence Tony, who had been

uncharacteristically quiet, intervened. "Philip, I'm not pulling a rescue here, but I've been wondering something. Have you had any follow-up feelings to Julius's telling us a few months ago about his sexual stuff after his wife died?"

Philip seemed grateful for the diversion. "What

feelings
should
I have?"

"I don't know about the '
should.
' I'm just asking what you
did
feel. Here's what I'm wondering: when you were first seeing him in therapy, would you have felt Julius understood you more if he revealed that he too had personal experience with sexual pressure?"

Philip nodded. "That's an interesting question. The answer

is, maybe, yes. It might have helped. I have no proof, but

Schopenhauer's writings suggest that he had sexual feelings

similar to mine in intensity and relentlessness. I believe that's why I felt so understood by him.

"But there's something I've omitted in talking about my

work with Julius, and I want to set the record straight. When I told him that his therapy had failed to be of value to me in any way, he confronted me with the same question raised in the group a little while ago: why would I want such an unhelpful therapist for a

supervisor? His question helped me recall a couple of things from our therapy that stuck with me and had, in fact, proved useful."

"Like what?" asked Tony.

"When I described my typical routinized evening of sexual

seduction--flirtation, pickup, dinner, sexual consummation--and asked him whether he was shocked or disgusted, he responded

only that it seemed like an exceptionally boring evening. That response shocked me. It got me realizing how much I had

arbitrarily infused my repetitive patterns with excitement."

"And the other thing that stuck with you?" asked Tony.

"Julius once asked what epitaph I might request for my

tombstone. When I didn't come up with anything, he offered a

suggestion: 'He fucked a lot.' And then he added that the same epitaph could serve for my dog as well."

Some members whistled or smiled. Bonnie said, "That's

mean, Julius."

"No," Philip said, "it wasn't said in a mean way--he meant

to shock me, to wake me up. And it
did
stick with me, and I think it played a role in my decision to change my life. But I guess I

wanted to forget these incidents. Obviously, I don't like

acknowledging that he's been helpful."

"Do you know why?" asked Tony.

"I've been thinking about it. Perhaps I feel competitive. If he wins, I lose. Perhaps I don't want to acknowledge that his

approach to counseling, so different from mine, works. Perhaps I don't want to get too close to him. Perhaps she," Philip nodded toward Pam, "is right: I can't relate to a living person."

"At least not easily," said Julius. "But you're getting closer."

And so the group continued over the next several weeks: perfect attendance, hard productive work, and, aside from repeated

anxious inquiries into Julius's health and the ongoing tension between Pam and Philip, the group felt trusting, intimate,

optimistic, even serene. No one was prepared for the bombshell about to hit the group.

35

S

e

l

f

-

T

h

e

r

a

p

y

_________________________

When
a man like

me

is

born

there

remains

only one thing

to be desired

from

without--

that throughout

the

whole

of

his life he can

as

much

as

possible

be

himself

and

live

for

his

intellectual

powers.

_________________________

More than anything else, the autobiographical "About Me" is a

dazzling compendium of self-therapy strategies that helped

Schopenhauer stay afloat psychologically. Though some strategies, devised in anxiety storms at 3A.M. and rapidly discarded at dawn, were fleeting and ineffective, others proved to be enduring

bulwarks of support. Of these, the most potent was his unswerving lifelong belief in his genius.

Even in my youth I noticed in myself that, whereas others

strived for external possessions, I did not have to turn to such things because I carried within me a treasure infinitely more

valuable than all external possessions; and the main thing was to enhance the treasure for which mental development and

complete independence are the primary conditions.... Contrary

to nature and the rights of man, I had to withdraw my powers

from the advancement of my own well-being, in order to

devote them to the service of mankind. My intellect belonged

not to me but to the world.

The burden of his genius, he said, made him more anxious

and uneasy than he already was by virtue of his genetic makeup.

For one thing, the sensibility of geniuses causes them to suffer more pain and anxiety. In fact, Schopenhauer persuades himself, there is a direct relationship between anxiety and intelligence.

Hence, not only do geniuses have an obligation to use their gift for mankind, but, because they are meant to devote themselves

entirely to the fulfilling of their mission, they were compelled to forego the many satisfactions (family, friends, home, accumulation of wealth) available to other humans.

Again and again he calmed himself by reciting mantras

based on the fact of his genius: "My life is heroic and not to be measured by the standards of Philistines, shopkeepers or ordinary men.... I must therefore not be depressed when I consider how I lack those things that are part of an individual's regular course of life.... therefore it cannot surprise me if my personal life seems incoherent and without any plan." Schopenhauer's belief in his genius served also to provide him with a perduring sense of life meaning: throughout his life he regarded himself as a missionary of truth to the human race.

Loneliness was the demon that most plagued Schopenhauer,

and he grew adept at constructing defenses against it. Of these, the most valuable was the conviction that he was master of his

destiny--that he chose loneliness; loneliness did not choose him.

When he was younger, he stated, he was inclined to be sociable, but thereafter: "I gradually acquired an eye for loneliness, became systematically unsociable and made up my mind to devote entirely to myself the rest of this fleeting life." "I am not," he reminded himself repeatedly, "in my native place and not among beings who are my equal."

So the defenses against isolation were powerful and deep: he

voluntarily chose isolation, other beings were unworthy of his company, his genius-based mission in life mandated isolation, the life of geniuses must be a "monodrama," and the personal life of a genius must serve one purpose: facilitating the intellectual life (hence, "the smaller the personal life, the safer, and thus the better").

At times Schopenhauer groaned under the burden of his

isolation. "Throughout my life I have felt terribly lonely and have always sighed from the depths of my heart, 'now give me a human being' but, alas in vain. I have remained in solitude but I can honestly and sincerely say it has not been my fault, for I have not shunned or turned away anyone who was a human being."