Текст книги "The Schopenhauer Cure"

Автор книги: Наталия Май

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helpful to your patients? Maybe you`ve just learned to pick patients who were going to

improve on their own anyway.

No. Wrong! Wasn`t I the one who always took on great challenges?

Huh, you`ve got your limits! When was the last time you really stretched yourself—

took a flagrant borderline into therapy? Or a seriously impaired schizophrenic or a

bipolar patient?

Continuing to thumb through old charts, Julius was surprised to see how much

posttherapy information he had—from occasional follow–up or «tune–up» visits, from

chance encounters with the patient, or from messages delivered by new patients they had

referred to him. But, still, had he made an enduring difference to them? Maybe his results

were evanescent. Maybe many of his successful patients had relapsed and shielded that

information from him out of sheer charity.

He noted his failures, too—folks, he had always told himself, who were not ready

for his advanced brand of deliverance. Wait, he told himself, give yourself a break,

Julius. How do you know they werereally failures?permanent failures? You never saw

them again. We all know there are plenty of late bloomers out there.

His eye fell upon Philip Slate`s thick chart. You want failure? he said to

himself.There was failure. Old–time major–league failure. Philip Slate. More than twenty

years had passed, but his image of Philip Slate was crisp. His light brown hair combed

straight back, his thin graceful nose, those high cheekbones that suggested nobility, and

those crisp green eyes that reminded him of Caribbean waters. He remembered how

much he disliked everything about his sessions with Philip. Except for one thing: the

pleasure of looking at that face.

Philip Slate was so alienated from himself that he never thought to look within,

preferring to skate on the surface of life and devote all his vital energy to fornication.

Thanks to his pretty face, he had no end of volunteers. Julius shook his head as he rifled

through Philip`s chart—three years of sessions, all that relating and support and caring,

all those interpretations without a whisper of progress. Amazing! Perhaps he wasn`t the

therapist he thought he was.

Whoa, don`t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Why would Philip continue for

three years if he had gotten nothing? Why would he continue to spend all that money for

nothing? And God knows Philip hated to spend money. Maybe those sessions had

changed Philip. Maybe hewas a late bloomer—one of those patients who needed time to

digest the nourishment given by the therapist, one of those who stored up some of the

therapist`s good stuff, took it home, like a bone, to gnaw on later, in private. Julius had

known patients so competitive that they hid their improvement just because they didn`t

want to give the therapist the satisfaction (and the power) of having helped them.

Now that Philip Slate entered his mind, Julius could not get him out. He had

burrowed in and taken root. Just like the melanoma. His failure with Philip became a

symbol embodyingall his failures in therapy. There was something peculiar about the

case of Philip Slate. From where had it drawn all that power? Julius opened his chart and

read his first note written twenty–five years before.

PHILIP SLATE—Dec. 11, 1980

26 yr old single white male chemist working for DuPont—develops new pesticides—

strikingly handsome, carelessly dressed but has a regal air, formal, sits stiffly with little

movement, no expression of feelings, serious, absence of any humor, not a smile or grin,

strictly business, no social skills whatsoever. Referred by his internist, Dr. Wood.

CHIEF COMPLAINT: «I am driven against my will by sexual impulses.»

Why now? «Last straw» episode a week ago which he described as though by rote.

I arrived by plane in Chicago for a professional meeting, got off the plane, and

charged to the nearest phone and went down my list of women in Chicago looking for

a sexual liaison that evening. No luck! They were all busy. Of course they were busy:

it was a Friday evening. I knew I was coming to Chicago; I could have phoned them

days, even weeks earlier. Then, after calling the last number in my book, I hung up

the phone and said to myself, «Thank God, now I can read and get a good night`s

sleep, which is what I really wanted to do all along.»

Patient says that phrase, that paradox—«which is what I really wanted to do

all along»—haunted him all week and is the specific impetus for seeking therapy.

«That`s what I want to focus on in therapy,” he says. «Ifthatis what I want—to read

and to get a good night`s sleep—Dr. Hertzfeld, tell me—why can`t I, why don`t I, do

it?»

Slowly more details of his work with Philip Slate coasted into mind. Philip had

intellectually intrigued him. At the time of their first meeting he had been working on a

paper on psychotherapy and the will, and Philip`s question—why can`t I do what I truly

want to do?—was a fascinating beginning for the article. And, most of all, he recalled

Philip`s extraordinary immutability: after three years he seemed entirely untouched and

unchanged—and as sexually driven as ever.

Whatever became of Philip Slate? Not one word from him since he abruptly bailed

out of therapy twenty–two years ago. Again Julius wondered whether, without knowing

it, he had been helpful to Philip. Suddenly, he had to know; it seemed a matter of life and

death. He reached for the phone and dialed 411.

2

_________________________

Ecstasy in the act of

copulation. That is it! That

is the true essence and core

of all things, the goal and

purpose of all existence.

_________________________

«Hello, is this Philip Slate?»

«Yes, Philip Slate, here.»

«Dr. Hertzfeld here. Julius Hertzfeld.»

«Julius Hertzfeld?»

«A voice from your past.»

«The deep past. The Pleistocene past. Julius Hertzfeld. I can`t believe it—it must

be what?...at least twenty years. And why this call?»

«Well, Philip, I`m calling about your bill. I don`t believe you paid in full for our

last session.»

«What? The last session? But I`m sure...”

«Just kidding, Philip. Sorry, some things never change—the old man is still jaunty

and irrepressible. I`ll be serious. Here, in a nutshell, is why I`m calling. I`m having some

health problems, and I`m contemplating retirement. In the course of making this decision

I`ve developed an irresistible urge to meet with some of my ex–patients—just to do some

follow–ups, to satisfy my own curiosity. I`ll explain more later if you wish. Soooo—

here`s my question to you: would you be willing to meet with me? Have a talk for an

hour? Review our therapy together and fill me in on what`s happened to you? It`ll be

interesting and enlightening for me. Who knows?—maybe for you as well.»

«Um...an hour. Sure. Why not? I assume there`s no fee?»

«Not unless you want to charge me, Philip—I`m asking for your time. How about

later this week? Say, Friday afternoon?»

«Friday? Fine. That`s satisfactory. I`ll give you an hour at one o`clock. I shan`t

request payment for my services, but this time let`s meet in my office—I`m on Union

Street—four–thirty–one Union. Near Franklin. Look for my office number on the building

directory—I`ll be listed as Dr. Slate. I am now also a therapist.»

Julius shivered as he hung up the phone. He swiveled his chair around and craned his

neck to catch a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge. After that call he needed to see

something beautiful. And feel something warm in his hands. He filled up his meerschaum

pipe with Balkan Sobranie, lit the match, and sucked.

Oh baby, Julius thought, that warm earthy taste of latakia, that honeyed, pungent

fragrance—like nothing else in the world. Hard to believe that he`d been away from it for

so many years. He sank into a reverie and mused about the day he stopped smoking. Had

to be right after that visit to his dentist, his next–door neighbor, old Dr. Denboer who had

died twenty years ago. Twenty years—how could it be? Julius could still see his long

Dutch face and gold–rimmed spectacles so clearly. Old Dr. Denboer beneath the soil now

for twenty years. And he, Julius, still above ground. For now.

«That blister on your palate,” Dr. Denboer shook his head slightly, «looks

worrisome. «We`ll need a biopsy.» And though that biopsy had been negative, it caught

Julius`s attention because that very week he had gone to Al`s funeral, his old cigarette–smoking tennis buddy, who died of lung cancer. And it didn`t help then that he was in the

midst of readingFreud, Living and Dying, by Max Schur, Freud`s doctor—a graphic

account of how Freud`s cigar–spawned cancer gradually devoured his palate, his jaw,

and, finally, his life. Schur promised Freud to help him die when the time came, and

when Freud finally told him that the pain was so great that it no longer made sense to

continue, Schur proved a man of his word and injected a fatal dose of morphine. Nowthat

was a doctor. Where do you find a Dr. Schur nowadays?

Over twenty years of no tobacco, and also no eggs or cheese or animal fats.

Healthy and happily abstinent. Until that God–dammed physical exam. Now everything

was permitted: smoking, ice cream, spare ribs, eggs, cheese...everything. What

difference did any of that matter any longer? What difference did anything make?—in

another year Julius Hertzfeld would be leeched into the soil, his molecules scattered,

awaiting their next assignment. And sooner or later, in another few million years, the

whole solar system would lie in ruins.

Feeling the curtain of despair descending, Julius quickly distracted himself by

turning his attention back to his phone call with Philip Slate. Philip a therapist? How was

that possible? He remembered Philip as cold, uncaring, oblivious of others, and, judging

from that phone call, he was still much the same. Julius drew on his pipe and shook his

head in silent wonder as he opened Philip`s chart and continued reading his dictated note

of their first session.

PRESENT ILLNESS—Sexually driven since thirteen—compulsive masturbation

throughout adolescence continuing till present day—sometimes four, five times daily—

obsessed with sex continually, masturbates to give himself peace. Huge hunk of life spent

on obsessing about sex—he says «the time I`ve wasted chasing women—I could have

gotten Ph.D.s in philosophy, Mandarin Chinese, and astrophysics.»

RELATIONSHIPS: A loner. Lives with his dog in a small flat. No male friends. Zero. Nor

any contacts with acquaintances from past—from high school, college, grad school.

Extraordinarily isolated. Never had a long–term relationship with a woman—consciously

avoids ongoing relationships—prefers one–night stands—occasionally sees a woman as

long as a month—usually woman breaks it off—either she wants more from him, or she

gets angry at being used or gets upset about his seeing other women. Desires novelty—

wants the sexual chase—but never satiated—sometimes when he travels he picks up a

woman, has sex, gets rid of her, and an hour later leaves his hotel room on the prowl

again. Keeps a record of partners, a score sheet, and in past twelve months has had sex

with ninety different women. Tells all this with flat affect—no shame, no boasting. Feels

anxious if he is alone for an evening. Usually sex acts like Valium. Once he has sex, he

feels peaceful for the rest of the evening and can read comfortably. No homosexual

activities or fantasies.

HIS PERFECT EVENING? Out early, picks up woman in bar, gets laid (preferably

before dinner), dumps woman as quickly as possible, preferably without having to buy

her dinner but usually ends up having to feed her. Important to have as much evening

time as possible for reading before going to bed. No TV, no movies, no social life, no

sports. Only recreation is reading and classical music. Voracious reader of classics,

history, and philosophy—no fiction, nothing current. Wanted to talk about Zeno and

Aristarchus, his current interests.

PAST HISTORY: Grew up in Connecticut, only child, upper middle class. Father

investment banker who committed suicide when Philip was thirteen. He knows nothing

about circumstances or reasons behind father`s suicide, some vague ideas that it was

aggravated by mother`s continual criticism. Blanket childhood amnesia—remembers

little of his first several years and nothing about his father`s funeral. Mother remarried

when he was 24. A loner in school, fanatically immersed in studies, never had close

friends, and since starting Yale at 17, has cut himself off from family. Phone contact with

mother once or twice a year. Has never met stepfather.

WORK: Successful chemist—develops new hormonal–based pesticides for DuPont.

Strictly an eight–to–five job, no passion about field, recently growing bored with his work.

Keeps current with the research in field but never during his off hours. High income plus

valuable stock options. A hoarder: enjoys tabulating his assets and managing his

investments and spends every lunch hour alone, studying stock market research.

IMPRESSION: Schizoid, sexually compulsive—very distant—refused to look at me—not

once did he meet my gaze—no sense of anything personal between us—clueless about

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

philosophy—especially the ideas and practices of the Far East—they were the only ones

that made any sense. All other religious systems failed to explore the fundamental

philosophical questions but instead used God as a method of avoiding true philosophical

analysis. I even put in a few weeks at meditation retreats. That was not without interest. It

didn`t halt the obsession, but nonetheless I had a feeling that there was something

important there. I just wasn`t yet ready for it.

«Meanwhile, except for the interlude of forced chastity in the ashram, and even

there I managed to find a few sliding doors, I continued the sexual hunt. As before, I had

sex with a lot of women, by the dozens, by the hundreds. Sometimes two a day,

anywhere, anytime I could find them—the same as when I was seeing you. Sex once,

occasionally twice, with a woman and then moving on. Never exciting after that; you

know the old saying: ‘You can only have sex for the first time with the same girl once.`”

Philip lifted his chin from his fingertips and turned to Julius.

«That last comment was meant to be humor, Dr. Hertzfeld. I remember you once

said it was remarkable that, in all our hours together, I never once told you a joke.»

Julius, now in no mood for levity, forced his lips into a grin even though he

recognized Philip`s little bon mot as something he himself had once said to Philip. Julius

imagined Philip as a mechanical doll with a large key jutting from the top of his head.

Time to wind him up again. «And then what happened?»

Gazing at the ceiling, Philip continued. «Then one day I reached a momentous

decision. Since no therapist had helped in any way—and, sorry to say, Dr. Hertzfeld, that

included you—”

«I`m beginning to get that particular point,” Julius interjected, then quickly added,

«No apologies needed. You`re simply answering my questions honestly.»

«Sorry, didn`t mean to dwell on that. To continue, since therapy had not been the

answer, I decided to heal myself—a course of bibliotherapy, assimilating the relevant

thoughts of the wisest men whoever lived. So I began systematically reading the entire

corpus of philosophy starting with the Greek pre–Socratics and working my way up to

Popper, Rawls, and Quine. After a year of study my compulsion was no better, but I

arrived at some important decisions: namely, that I was on the right track and that