Ирвин Ялом - The Schopenhauer Cure

interpersonal relations, responded to my here–and–now question about his first

impressions of me with a look of bewilderment—as though I were speaking Catalan or

Swahili. He seemed edgy, and I felt uncomfortable with him. Absolutely no humor. Zero.

Highly intelligent, articulate but stingy with words—makes me work hard. Tenaciously

concerned about therapy cost (though he can easily afford it). Requested fee reduction,

which I refused. Seemed unhappy about my starting a couple minutes late and did not

hesitate to inquire whether we`d make up this time at end of session to get full value.

Questioned me twice about precisely how much advance notice he needed to give to

cancel a session and avoid being charged.

Closing the chart, Julius thought:Now, twenty–five years later, Philip is a therapist.

Could there be a more unsuitable person in the world for that job? He seems very much

the same: still no sense of humor, still hung up about money (maybe I shouldn`t have

made that crack about his bill). A therapist without a sense of humor? And so cold. And

that edgy request to meet at hisoffice. Julius shivered again.

3

_________________________

Lifeis a miserable thing. I

have decided to spend my life

thinking about it.

_________________________

Union Street was sunny and festive. The clatter of silverware and the buzz of animated

luncheon conversation streamed from the packed sidewalk tables at Prego, Beetlenut,

Exotic Pizza, and Perry`s. Aqua–marine and magenta balloons tethered to parking meters

advertised a weekend sidewalk sale. But as Julius strolled toward Philip`s office he barely

glanced at the diners or the outdoor stalls heaped with the leftover designer clothes from

the summer season. Nor did he linger at any of his favorite shop windows, not at Morita`s

antique Japanese furniture shop, the Tibetan shop, or even Asian Treasures with the gaily

colored eighteenth–century roof tile of a fantastical woman warrior that he rarely passed

without admiring.

Nor was dying in his mind. The riddles connected with Philip Slate offered

diversion from those disquieting thoughts. First there was the riddle of memory and why

he could so easily conjure up Philip`s image with such eerie clarity. Where had Philip`s

face, name, story been lurking all these years? Hard to get his mind around the fact that

the memory of his whole experience with Philip was contained neurochemically

somewhere in the cortex of his brain. Most likely Philip dwelled in an intricate «Philip»

network of connected neurons that, when triggered by the right neurotransmitters, would

spring into action and project an image of Philip upon a ghostly screen in his visual

cortex. He found it chilling to think of harboring a microscopic robotic projectionist in

his brain.

But even more intriguing was the riddle of why he chose to revisit Philip. Of all his

old patients, why choose Philip to lift out of deep memory storage? Was it simply

because his therapy had been so dismally unsuccessful? Surely there was more to it than

that. After all, there were many other patients he had not helped. But most of the faces

and names of the failures had vanished without a trace. Maybe it was because most of his

failures had dropped out of therapy quickly; Philip was an unusual failure in that he had

continued to come. God, how he continued! For three frustrating years he never a missed

session. Never late, not one minute—too cheap to waste any paid time. And then one day,

without warning, a simple and irrevocable announcement at the end of an hour that this

was his last session.

Even when Philip terminated, Julius had still regarded him as treatable; but then,

he always erred in the direction of thinking everyone was treatable. Why did he fail?

Philip was serious about working on his problems; he was challenging, smart, with

intelligence to burn. But thoroughly unlikable. Julius rarely accepted a patient he

disliked, but he knew there was nothing personal in his dislike of Philip:anyone would

dislike him. Consider his lifelong lack of friends.

Though he may have disliked Philip, heloved the intellectual riddle Philip

presented. His chief complaint («Why can`t I do what I really want to do?») was an

enticing example of will–paralysis. Though the therapy may not have been useful for

Philip, it was marvelously facilitative for Julius`s writing, and many ideas emerging from

the sessions found their way into his celebrated article «The Therapist and the Will» and

into his bookWishing, Willing, and Acting. The thought flashed though his mind that

perhaps he had exploited Philip. Perhaps now, with his heightened sense of connectivity,

he might redeem himself, might yet accomplish what he had failed to do before.

Four–thirty–one Union was a modest stucco two–story corner building. In the

vestibule Julius saw on the directory Philip`s name: «Philip Slate Ph.D. Philosophical

Counseling.» Philosophical counseling? What the hell is that? Next, Julius snorted, it`ll

be barbers offering tonsorial therapy and greengrocers advertising legume counseling. He

ascended the stairs and pressed the bell.

A buzz sounded as the door lock clicked open, and Julius entered a tiny bare–walled waiting room furnished only with an uninviting black vinyl loveseat. A few feet

away, in the doorway to his office, Philip stood and, without approaching, beckoned

Julius to enter. No handshake was offered.

Julius checked Philip`s appearance against his memory. Pretty close match. Not

much change in the past twenty–five years except for some soft wrinkles about the eyes

and slight flabbiness in the neck. His light brown hair still combed straight back, those

green eyes still intense, still averted. Julius recalled how rarely their gaze had met in all

their years together. Philip reminded him of one of those supremely self–sufficient kids in

class who sat in lectures and never took notes, while he and everyone else hustled to jot

down every fact that might make an appearance on an exam.

Entering Philip`s office, Julius considered a wisecrack about the Spartan

furnishings—a scuffed cluttered desk, two uncomfortable–looking, nonmatching chairs,

and a wall adorned only with a diploma. But he thought better of it, sat in the chair Philip

indicated, played it straight, and waited for Philip`s lead.

«Well, it has been a long time. Really long.» Philip spoke in a formal, professional

voice and gave no sign of nervousness about taking charge of the interview and thereby

switching roles with his old therapist.

«Twenty–two. I just looked over my records.»

«And why now, Dr. Hertzfeld?»

«Does this mean we`ve finished the small talk?» No, no! Julius chided himself. Cut

it out! He remembered that Philip had no sense of humor.

Philip seemed unperturbed. «Basic interview technique, Dr. Hertzfeld. You know

the routine. Establish the frame. We`ve already set the place, the time—I offer a sixty–minute session, incidentally, not the fifty–minute psych hour—and the fees, or lack

thereof. So, next step is to move to purpose and goals. I`m trying to be at your service,

Dr. Hertzfeld, to make this session as efficient as possible for you.»

«All right, Philip. I appreciate it. Your ‘why now?` is never a bad question—I use

it all the time. Focuses the session. Gets us right down to business. As I told you on the

phone, some health problems, significant health problems, have resulted in my wanting to

look back, appraise things, evaluate my work with patients. Perhaps it`s my age—a

summing up. I believe when you reach sixty–five you`ll understand why.»

«I`ll have to take your word on that summing–up process. The reason for your wish

to see me or any of your clients again is not immediately apparent to me, and I experience

no inclinations in that direction. My clients pay me a fee, and, in return, I give them my

expert counsel. Our transaction ends. When we part, they feel they got good value, I feel I

gave them full measure. I can`t possibly imagine wanting to revisit them in the future.

But, I am at your service. Where to start?»

Julius characteristically held little back in interviews. That was one of his

strengths—people trusted him to be a straight shooter. But today he forced himself to

hold back. He was stunned by Philip`s brusqueness, but he wasn`t there to give Philip

advice. What he wanted was Philip`s honest version of their work together, and the less

Julius said about his state of mind, the better. If Philip knew about his despair, his search

for meaning, his longing to have played some enduring instrumental role in Philip`s life,

he might, out of a sense of charity, give him just the affirmation he wanted. Or, perhaps,

because of his contrariness, Philip might do just the opposite.

«Well, let me start by thanking you for humoring me and agreeing to meet. Here`s

what I want: first, your view of our work together—how it helped and how it didn`t—

and, second—and this is a tall order—I`d like very much to get a full briefing about your

life since we last met. I always like to hear the end of stories.»

If surprised by this request, Philip gave no sign but sat silently for a few moments,

eyes closed, the fingertips of his two hands touching. In a carefully measured pace, he

began. «The story`s not at an end yet—in fact my life has had such a remarkable turn in

the last few years that I feel it`s just now beginning. But I`ll maintain a strict chronology

and start with my therapy. Overall, I`d have to say that my therapy with you was a

complete failure. A time–consuming and expensive failure. I think I did my job as a

patient. As far as I can recall, I was fully cooperative, worked hard, came regularly, paid

my bills, remembered dreams, followed any leads you offered. Would you agree?»

«Agree that you were a cooperative patient? Absolutely. I`d even say more. I

remember you as a dedicated patient.»

Looking again at the ceiling, Philip nodded and continued: «As I recall, I saw you

for three full years. And much of that time we met twice a week. That`s a lot of hours—at

least two hundred. About twenty thousand dollars.»

Julius almost leaped in. Whenever a patient made a statement like that, his reflex

was to reply «a drop in the bucket.» And then point out that the issues being worked on in

therapy had been problematic for so much of the patient`s life that one could hardly

expect them to yield quickly. He often added a personal note—that his first course of

therapy, an analysis during his training, had been five times a week for three years—a

total of over seven hundred hours. But Philip was not his patient now, and he was not

there to persuade Philip of anything. He was there to listen. He bit his lips in silence.

Philip continued. «When I started with you I was at the nadir of my existence; ‘in

the trough` might be more apt. Working as a chemist and developing new ways to kill

insects, I was bored with my career, bored with my life, bored with everything except

reading philosophy and pondering the great riddles of history. But the reason I came to

you was my sexual behavior. You remember that, of course?»

Julius nodded.

«I was out of control. All I wanted was sex. I was obsessed with it. I was insatiable.

I shudder to think of the way I was, the life I led. I attempted to seduce as many women

as possible. After coitus I had a brief respite from the compulsion, but in a short while my

desire took over again.»

Julius suppressed a smile at Philip`s use ofcoitus —he remembered now the

strange paradox of Philip wallowing in carnality but eschewing all four–letter words.

«It was only in that brief period—immediately after coitus,” Philip continued, «that

I was able to live fully, harmoniously—that was when I could connect with the great

minds of the past.»

«I remember you and your Aristarchus and Zeno.»

«Yes, those and many others since, but the respites, the compulsion–free times,

were all too brief. Now I`m liberated. Now I dwell in a higher realm all the time. But let

me continue to review my therapy with you. Isn`t that your primary request?»

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 itwas 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