Ирвин Ялом - The Schopenhauer Cure

But let me be teacherly and make one point. I often view a

statement or act from two different points of view—from

itscontent and from itsprocess —and byprocess I meanwhat it tells

us about the nature of the relationship between the parties

involved. Like you, Stuart, I don`t immediately understand

thecontent of Philip`s message: I`ve got to study it, and maybe the

content can be a topic in another meeting. But I know something

about theprocess. What I know, Philip, is that you, like Pam, were

thinking about me, wanted to give me a gift, and you went to some

lengths to do it: you memorized the passage and you made copies.

And the meaning of that? It`s got to reflect your caring about me.

And what do I feel about it? I`m touched, I appreciate it, and I look

forward to the time when you can express your caring in your own

words.»

_________________________

Life can be

compared to a

piece of

embroidered

material of

which, everyone

in the first

half of his

time, comes to

see the top

side, but in

the second

half, the

reverse side.

The latter is

not so

beautiful, but

is more

instructive

because it

enables one to

see how the

threads are

connected

together.

_________________________

When the group left, Julius watched them walk down his front

stairs to the street. Rather than peel off singly to their parked cars,

they continued in a clump, undoubtedly on their way to the coffee

shop. Oh, how he would have liked to grab his windbreaker and go

flying down the stairs to join them. But that was another day,

another life, another pair of legs, he thought, as he crept down the

hall heading toward his office computer to enter his notes on the

meeting. Suddenly, he changed his mind, walked back into the

group room, took out his pipe, and enjoyed the aroma of rich

Turkish tobacco. He had no particular purpose other than simply to

bask for a few minutes more in the embers of the group session.

This meeting, like the last three or four, had been riveting.

His thoughts drifted back to the groups of breast cancer patients he

had led so long ago. How often had those members described a

golden period once they overcame the panic of realizing that they

were truly going to die. Some said living with cancer had made

them wiser, more self–realized, while others had reordered their

priorities in life, grown stronger, learned to say no to activities they

no longer valued and yes to things that really mattered—such as

loving their family and friends, observing the beauty about them,

savoring the changing seasons. But what a pity, so many had

lamented, that it was only after their bodies were riddled with

cancer that they had learned how to live.

These changes were so dramatic—indeed one patient had

proclaimed, «Cancer cures psychoneurosis»—that on a couple of

occasions Julius impishly described only the psychological

changes to a class of students and then asked them to guess what

kind of therapy was involved. How shocked students were to learn

it was not therapy or medication but a confrontation with death that

had made the difference. He owed a lot to those patients. What a

model they were for him in his time of need. What a pity he

couldn`t tell them. Live right, he reminded himself, and have faith

that good things will flow from you even if you never learn of

them.

And how are you doing with your cancer? he asked himself.

I know a lot about the panic phase which, thank God, I`m now

coming out of even though there are still those 3A.M. times when

panic grips with a nameless terror that yields to no reasoning or

rhetoric—it yields to nothing except Valium, the light of breaking

dawn, or a soothing hot–tub soak.

But have I changed or grown wiser? he wondered. Had my

golden period? Maybe I`m closer to my feelings—maybe that`s

growth. I think, no,I know I`ve become a better therapist—grown

more sensitive ears. Yes, definitely I`m a different therapist.

Before my melanoma I would never have said that I was in love

with the group. I would never have dreamed of revealing such

intimate details of my life—Miriam`s death, my sexual

opportunism. And my irresistible compulsion to confess to the

group today—Julius shook his head in amazement—

that`ssomething to wonder about, he thought. I feel a push to go

against the grain, against my training, my own teaching.

One thing for sure, they didnot want to hear me. Talk about

resistance! They wanted no part of my blemishes or my darkness.

But, once I put it out, some interesting stuff emerged. Tony was

something else! Acted like a skilled therapist—inquiring whether I

was satisfied with the group`s response, trying to normalize my

behavior, pressing about «why now.» Terrific stuff. I could almost

imagine him leading the group after I`m gone—that would be

something—a college drop–out therapist with jail time in his past.

And others—Gill, Stuart, Pam—stepped up, took care of me, and

kept the group focused. Jung had other things in mind when he

said that only the wounded healer can truly heal, but maybe honing

the patients` therapeutic skills is a good enough justification for

therapists to reveal their wounds.

Julius moseyed down the hall to his office and continued

thinking about the meeting. And Gill—did he show up today!

Calling Pam «the chief justice» was terrific—and accurate. I have

to help Pam integrate that feedback. Here`s a case when Gill`s

vision is sharper than mine. For a long time I`ve liked Pam so

much that I overlooked her pathology—maybe that`s why I

couldn`t help her with her obsession about John.

Julius turned on his computer and opened a file titled, «Short

Story Plots»—a file which contained the great unfulfilled project in

his life: to be a real writer. He was a good, contributing

professional writer (he had published two books and a hundred

articles in the psychiatric literature), but Julius yearned to write

literature and for decades had collected plots for short stories from

his imagination and his practice. Though he had started several, he

never found the time, nor the courage, to finish and submit a story

for publication.

Scrolling down the lists of plots he clicked on «Victims

confront their enemy» and read two of his ideas. The first

confrontation took place on a posh ship cruising off the Turkish

coast. A psychiatrist enters the ship`s casino and there across the

smoke–filled room sees an ex–patient, a con man who had once

swindled him out of seventy–five thousand dollars. The second

confrontation plot involved a female attorney who was assigned a

pro bono case to defend an accused rapist. On her first jail

interview with him she suspects he is the man who raped her ten

years before.

He made a new entry: «In a therapy group a woman

encounters a man who, many years before, had been her teacher

and sexually exploited her.» Not bad. Great potential for literature,

Julius thought, though he knew it would never be written. There

were ethical issues: he`d need permission from Pam and Philip.

And he`d need, also, the passage of ten years, which he didn`t

have. But potential, too, for good therapy, thought Julius. He was

certain that something positive could come of this—if only he

could keep them both in the group and could bear the pain of

opening up old wounds.

Julius picked up Philip`s translation of the tale of the ship`s

passengers. He reread it several times, trying to understand its

meaning or relevance. But still he ended up shaking his head.

Philip offered it as comfort. But where was the comfort?

How Arthur Lived

_________________________

Even when there

is no

particular

provocation, I

always have an

anxious concern

that causes me

to see and look

for dangers

when none

exist; for me

it magnifies to

infinity the

tiniest

vexation and

makes

association

with people

most difficult.

_________________________

After obtaining his doctorate, Arthur lived in Berlin, briefly in

Dresden, Munich, and Mannheim, and then, fleeing a cholera

epidemic, settled, for the last thirty years of his life, in Frankfurt,

which he never left aside from one–day excursions. He had no paid

employment, lived in rented rooms, never had a home, hearth,

wife, family, intimate friendships. He had no social circle, no close

acquaintances, and no sense of community—in fact he was often

the subject of local ridicule. Until the very last few years of his life

he had no audience, readership, or income from his writings. Since

he had so few relationships, his meager correspondence consisted

primarily of business matters.

Despite his lack of friends, we nonetheless know more about

his personal life than that of most philosophers because he was

astonishingly personal in his philosophical writings. For example,

in the opening paragraphs of the introduction to his major

work,The World as Will and Representation, he strikes an

unusually personal note for a philosophic treatise. His pure and

clear prose makes it immediately evident that he desires to

communicate personally with the reader. First he instructs the

reader how to read his book, starting with a plea to read the book

twice—and to do so with much patience. Next he urges the reader

to first read his previous book,On the Fourfold Root of Sufficient

Reason, which serves as an introduction to this book and assures

the reader that he will feel much gratitude toward him for his

advice. He then states that the reader will profit even more if he is

familiar with the magnificent work of Kant and the divine Plato.

He notes that he has, however, discovered grave errors in Kant,

which he discusses in an appendix (which should also be read

first), and lastly notes that those readers familiar with the

Upanishads will be prepared best of all to comprehend his book.

And, finally, he remarks (quite correctly) that the reader must be

growing angry and impatient with his presumptuous, immodest,

and time–consuming requests. How odd that this most personal of

philosophic writers should have lived so impersonally.

In addition to personal references inserted into his work,

Schopenhauer reveals much about himself in an autobiographical

document with a title written in Greek, (About

Myself), a manuscript shrouded in mystery and controversy whose

strange story goes like this:

Late in his life there gathered around Arthur a very small

circle of enthusiasts, or «evangelists,” whom he tolerated but

neither respected nor liked. These acquaintances often heard him

speak of «About Myself,” an autobiographical journal in which he

had been jotting observations about himself for the previous thirty

years. Yet after his death something strange happened: «About

Myself» was nowhere to be found. After searching in vain,