Ирвин Ялом - The Schopenhauer Cure

think about—Tony, you opened up some things for me. Thanks.»

«So,” said Tony with a grin, «am I excused from paying

today?»

«Blessed is he who gives,” said Julius. «But who knows?—

keep on like this and that day may come.»

After leaving the group room the members chattered on the outside

steps of Julius`s home before dispersing. Only Tony and Pam

headed toward the coffee shop.

Pam was fixated on Philip. She was not mollified by Philip`s

statement that she had been unlucky to have met him. Moreover,

she hated his compliment on her interpretation of the parable and

hated even more that she had enjoyed getting it. She worried that

the group was swinging over to Philip—away from her, away from

Julius.

Tony felt elated—he voted himself the MVP—the meeting`s

most valuable player; maybe he`d skip the bar scene tonight—try

to read one of the books Pam had given him.

Gill watched Pam and Tony walk down the street together.

He (and Philip of course) were the only ones Pam had not hugged

at the end of the meeting. Had he crossed her too much? Gill

turned his attention to tomorrow`s wine–tasting event—one of

Rose`s big nights. A group of Rose`s friends always got together at

this time of the year for a sampling of the year`s best wines. How

to negotiate that? Just swish the wine and spit it out? Pretty tough

to pull that off. Or come right out with the truth? He thought of his

AA sponsor: he knew how the conversation between them would

go:

Sponsor:Where`re your priorities? Skip the event, go to a

meeting.

Gill:But wine tasting is the reason these friends get together.

Sponsor:Is it? Suggest another activity.

Gill:Won`t work. They won`t do it.

Sponsor:Then get new friends.

Gill:Rose won`t like it.

Sponsor:So?

Rebecca said to herself:Real stuff in, real stuff out. Real stuff

in, real stuff out. Must remember that. She smiled when she

thought about Tony counting his money when she had talked about

her flirtation with whoredom. Secretly she had gotten a kick out of

that. Was it bad faith to accept an apology from him?

Bonnie, as always, hated to see the meeting come to an end.

She was alive those ninety minutes. The rest of her life seemed so

tepid. Why was that? Whymust librarians lead dull lives? Then she

thought about Philip`s statement about what you are, what you

have, and what you represent to others. Intriguing!

Stuart relished the meeting. He was entering full–bodied into

the group. He repeated to himself the words he had said to Rebecca

about how her looks served as a barrier to knowing her and that he

had recently seen something deeper than her skin. That was good.

That was good. And telling Philip that his cold kind of consolation

had made him shiver.That was being more than a camera. And

then there was the way he had pointed out the tension between

Pam and Philip. No, no, that was camera stuff.

On his walk home Philip struggled to avoid thinking of the

meeting, but the events were too heady to screen out. In a few

minutes he caved in and permitted his thoughts free rein. Old

Epictetus had caught their attention. He always does. Then he

imagined hands reaching out and faces turned toward him. Gill had

become his champion—but not to be taken seriously. Gill

wasn`tfor him but instead wasagainst Pam, trying to learn how to

defend himself against her, and Rose, and all other women.

Rebecca had liked what he had said. Her handsome face lingered

briefly in his mind. And then he thought of Tony—the tattoos, the

bruised cheek. He had never met anyone like him—a real

primitive, but a primitive who is beginning to comprehend a world

beyond everydayness. And Julius—was he losing his sharpness?

How could he defend attachment while acknowledging his

problems of overinvestment in Philip as a patient?

Philip felt jittery, uncomfortable in his skin. He sensed that

he was in danger of unraveling. Why had he told Pam that she was

unlucky to have met him? Is that why she had spoken his name so

often in the meeting—and demanded that he face her? His former

debased self was hovering like a ghost. He sensed its presence,

thirsting for life. Philip quieted his mind and slipped into a walking

meditation.

33

Suffering, Rage, Perseverance

_________________________

To the learned

men and

philosophers of

Europe: for

you, a windbag

like Fichte is

the equal of

Kant, the

greatest

thinker of all

time, and a

worthless

barefaced

charlatan like

Hegel is

considered to

be a profound

thinker. I have

therefore not

written for

you.

_________________________

If Arthur Schopenhauer were alive today, would he be a candidate

for psychotherapy? Absolutely! He was highly symptomatic. In

«About Me» he laments that nature endowed him with an anxious

disposition and a «suspiciousness, sensitiveness, vehemence, and

pride in a measure that is hardly compatible with the equanimity of

a philosopher.»

In graphic language he describes his symptoms.

Inherited from my father is the anxiety which I myself curse

and combat with all the force of my will.... As a young man I

was tormented by imaginary illnesses.... When I was studying

in Berlin I thought I was a consumptive.... I was haunted by

the fear of being pressed into military service.... From Naples I

was driven by the fear of smallpox and from Berlin by the fear

of cholera.... In Verona I was seized by the idea I had taken

poisoned snuff...in Manheim I was overcome by an

indescribable feeling of fear without any external cause.... For

years I was haunted by the fear of criminal proceedings.... If

there was a noise at night I jumped out of bed and seized sword

and pistols that I always had ready loaded.... I always have an

anxious concern that causes me to look for dangers where none

exist: it magnifies the tiniest vexation and makes association

with people most difficult for me.

Hoping to quell his suspiciousness and chronic fear, he

employed a host of precautions and rituals: he hid gold coins and

valuable interest–bearing coupons in old letters and other secret

places for emergency use, he filed personal notes under false

headings to confuse snoopers, he was fastidiously tidy, he

requested that he always be served by the same bank clerk, he

allowed no one to touch his statue of the Buddha.

His sexual drive was too strong for comfort, and, even as a

young man, he deplored being controlled by his animal passions.

At the age of thirty–six a mysterious course of illness confined him

to his room for an entire year. A physician and medical historian

suggested in 1906 that his illness had been syphilis, basing the

diagnosis only upon the nature of the medication prescribed,

coupled with Schopenhauer`s history of unusually great sexual

activity.

Arthur longed to be released from the grip of sexuality. He

savored his moments of serenity when he was able to observe the

world with calm in spite of the lust tormenting his corporeal self.

He compared sexual passion to the daylight which obscures the

stars. As he aged he welcomed the decline of sexual passion and

the accompanying tranquillity.

Since his deepest passion was his work, his strongest and

most persistent fear was that he should lose the financial means

enabling him to live the life of the intellect. Even into old age he

blessed the memory of his father, who had made such a life

possible, and he spent much time and energy guarding his money

and pondering his investments. Accordingly, he was alarmed by

any unrest threatening his investments and became

ultraconservative in his politics. The 1848 rebellion, which swept

over Germany as well as the rest of Europe, terrified him. When

soldiers entered his building to gain a vantage point from which to

fire on the rebellious populace in the street, he offered them his

opera glasses to increase the accuracy of their rifle fire. In his will,

twelve years later, he left almost his entire estate to a fund

established for the welfare of Prussian soldiers disabled fighting

that rebellion.

His anxiety–driven letters about business matters were often

laced with anger and threats. When the banker who handled the

Schopenhauer family money suffered a disastrous financial setback

and, to escape bankruptcy, offered all his investors only a small

fraction of their investment, Schopenhauer threatened him with

such draconian legal consequences that the banker returned to him

70 percent of his money while paying other investors (including

Schopenhauer`s mother and sister) an even smaller portion than

originally proposed. His abusive letters to his publisher eventually

resulted in a permanent rupture of their relationship. The publisher

wrote: «I shall not accept any letters from you which in their divine

rudeness and rusticity suggest a coachman rather than a

philosopher.... I only hope that my fears that by printing your

work I am printing only waste paper will not come true.»

Schopenhauer`s rage was legendary: rage at financiers who

handled his investments, at publishers who could not sell his

books, at the dolts who attempted to engage him in conversations,

at the bipeds who regarded themselves his equal, at those who

coughed at concerts, and at the press for ignoring him. But the real

rage, the white–hot rage whose vehemence still astounds us and

made Schopenhauer a pariah in his intellectual community was his

rage toward contemporary thinkers, particularly the two leading

lights of nineteenth–century philosophy: Fichte and Hegel.

In a book published twenty years after Hegel succumbed to

cholera during the Berlin epidemic, he referred to Hegel as «a

commonplace, inane, loathsome, repulsive, and ignorant charlatan,

who with unparalleled effrontery, compiled a system of crazy

nonsense that was trumpeted abroad as immortal wisdom by his

mercenary followers.»

Such intemperate outbursts about other philosophers cost

him heavily. In 1837 he was awarded first prize for an essay on the

freedom of the will in a competition sponsored by the Royal

Norwegian Society for Learning. Schopenhauer showed a childlike

delight in the prize (it was his very first honor) and greatly vexed

the Norwegian consul in Frankfurt by impatiently clamoring for

his medal. However, the very next year, his essay on the basis of

morality submitted to a competition sponsored by the Royal

Danish Society for Learning met a different fate. Though the

argument of his essay was excellent and though it was the only

essay submitted, the judges refused to award him the prize because

of his intemperate remarks about Hegel. The judges commented,

«We cannot pass over in silence the fact that several outstanding

philosophers of the modern age are referred to in so improper a

manner as to cause serious and just offense.»

Over the years many have agreed entirely with

Schopenhauer`s opinion that Hegel`s prose is unnecessarily

obfuscating. In fact, he is so difficult to read that an old joke

circulating around philosophy departments is that the most vexing

and awesome philosophical question is not «does life have

meaning?» or «what is consciousness?» but «who will teach Hegel

this year?» Still, the level, the vehemence of Schopenhauer`s rage

set him apart from all other critics.

The more his work was neglected, the shriller he became,

which, in turn, caused further neglect and, for many, made him an

object of mockery. Yet, despite his anxiety and loneliness,

Schopenhauer survived and continued to exhibit all the outward

signs of personal self–sufficiency. And he persevered in his work,

remaining a productive scholar until the end of his life. He never

lost faith in himself. He compared himself to a young oak tree who

looked as ordinary and unimportant as other plants. «But let him

alone: he will not die. Time will come and bring those who know

how to value him.» He predicted his genius would ultimately have

a great influence upon future generations of thinkers. And he was

right; all that he predicted has come to pass.

34

_________________________

Seen from the

standpoint of

youth, life is

an endlessly

long future;

from that of

old age it

resembles a

very brief

past. When we

sail away,

objects on the

shore become

ever smaller

and more

difficult to

recognize and

distinguish;

so, too, is it

with our past

years with all

their events

and activities.

_________________________

As time raced by, Julius looked forward with increasing

anticipation to the weekly group meeting. Perhaps his experiences

in the group were more poignant because the weeks of his «one

good year» were running out. But it was not just the events of the

group; everything in his life, large and small, appeared more tender

and vivid. Of course, his weeks hadalways been numbered, but the

numbers had seemed so large, so stretched into a forever future,

that he had never confronted the end of weeks.

Visible endings always cause us to brake. Readers zip

through the thousand pages ofThe Brothers Karamazov until there

are only a dozen remaining pages, and then they suddenly

decelerate, savoring each paragraph slowly, sucking the nectar

from each phrase, each word. Scarcity of days caused Julius to

treasure time; more and more he fell into astonished contemplation

of the miraculous flow of everyday events.

Recently, he had read a piece by an entomologist who

explored the cosmos existing in a roped–off, two–by–two piece of

turf. Digging deeply, he described his sense of awe at the dynamic,

teeming world of predators and prey, nematodes, millipedes,

springtails, armor–plated beetles, and spiderlings. If perspective is

attuned, attention rapt, and knowledge vast, then one enters

everydayness in a perpetual state of wonderment.

So it was for Julius in the group. His fears about the

recurrence of his melanoma had receded, and his panics grew less

frequent. Perhaps his greater comfort stemmed from taking his

doctor`s estimate of «one good year» too literally, almost as a

guarantee. More likely, though, his mode of life was the active

emollient. Following Zarathustra`s path, he had shared his

ripeness, transcended himself by reaching out to others, and lived