Текст книги "The Schopenhauer Cure"

Автор книги: Наталия Май

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philosophy was my home. This was a major step—I remember how much you and I had

talked about my never being at home anywhere in the world.»

Julius nodded. «Yes, I remember that, too.»

«I decided that, as long as I was going to spend years reading philosophy, I might

as well make a profession of it. My money wouldn`t last forever. So I entered the Ph.D.

program in philosophy at Columbia. I did well, wrote a competent dissertation, and five

years later had a doctorate in philosophy. I embarked on a teaching career and then, just a

couple of years ago, became interested in applied or, as I prefer to think of it, ‘clinical

philosophy.` And that brings me up to today.»

«You haven`t finished telling me about being healed.»

«Well, at Columbia, midway through my reading, I developed a relationship with a

therapist, the perfect therapist, the therapist who offered me what no one else had been

able to give.»

«In New York, eh? What was his name? At Columbia? What institute did he

belong to?»

«His name was Arthur...” Philip paused and watched Julius with a trace of a grin

on his lips.

«Arthur?»

«Yes, Arthur Schopenhauer, my therapist.»

«Schopenhauer? You`re putting me on, Philip.»

«I`ve never been more serious.»

«I know little about Schopenhauer: just the clichГ©s about his gloomy pessimism.

I`ve never heard his name mentioned in the context of therapy. How was he able to help?

What—?»

«I hate to cut you off, Dr. Hertzfeld, but I have a client coming and I still refuse to

be late—that hasn`t changed. Please give me your card. Some other time I`ll tell you

more about him. He was the therapist meant for me. I don`t exaggerate when I say I owe

my life to the genius of Arthur Schopenhauer.»

4

1787—The

Genius: Stormy

Beginning

and False Start

_________________________

Talentis like a marksman who

hits a target which others

cannot reach; genius is like a

marksman who hits a target

which others cannot see.

_________________________

Stormy Beginning—The genius was only four inches long when the storms began. In

September of 1787 his enveloping amniotic sea roiled, tossed him to and fro, and

threatened his fragile attachment to the uterine shore. The sea waters reeked of anger and

fear. The sour chemicals of nostalgia and despair enveloped him. Gone forever were

sweet balmy bobbing days. With nowhere to turn and no hope of comfort, his tiny neural

synapses flared and fired in all directions.

What is young–learned is best–learned. Arthur Schopenhauer never forgot his early

lessons.

False Start (or How Arthur Schopenhauer almost became an Englishman)—Arthurrr.

Arthurrr, Arthurrrr. Heinrich Florio Schopenhauer scratched each syllable with his

tongue. Arthur—a good name, an excellent name for the future head of the great

Schopenhauer mercantile house.

It was 1787, and his young wife, Johanna, was two months pregnant when

Heinrich Schopenhauer made a decision: if he had a son, he would name him Arthur. An

honorable man, Heinrich allowed nothing to take precedence over duty. Just as his

ancestors had passed the stewardship of the great Schopenhauer mercantile house to him,

he would pass it to his son. These were perilous times, but Heinrich was confident that

his yet unborn son would guide the firm into the nineteenth century. Arthur was the

perfect name for the position. It was a name spelled the same in all major European

languages, a name which would slip gracefully through all national borders. But, most

important of all, it was an English name!

For centuries Heinrich`s ancestors had guided the Schopenhauer business with

great diligence and success. Heinrich`s grandfather once hosted Catherine the Great of

Russia and, to ensure her comfort, ordered brandy to be poured over the floors of the

guest quarters and then set afire to leave the rooms dry and aromatic. Heinrich`s father

had been visited by Frederick, the king of Prussia, who spent hours attempting,

unsuccessfully, to persuade him to shift the company from Danzig to Prussia. And now

the stewardship of the great merchant house had passed to Heinrich, who was convinced

that a Schopenhauer bearing the name of Arthur would lead the firm into a brilliant

future.

The Schopenhauer mercantile house, dealing in the trade of grains, timber, and

coffee, had long been one of the leading firms of Danzig, that venerable Hanseatic city

which had long dominated the Baltic trade. But bad times had come for the grand free

city. With Prussia menacing in the west and Russia in the east, and with a weakened

Poland no longer able to continue guaranteeing Danzig`s sovereignty, Heinrich

Schopenhauer had no doubt that Danzig`s days of freedom and trading stability were

coming to an end. All of Europe was awash in political and financial turmoil—save

England. England was the rock. England was the future. The Schopenhauer firm and

family would find safe haven in England. No, more than safe haven, it would prosper if

its future head should be born an Englishman and bear an English name. Herr Arthurrr

Schopenhauer, no—Mister Arthurrr Schopenhauer—an English subject heading the firm:

that was the ticket to the future.

So, paying no heed to the protests of his teenaged pregnant wife, who pleaded to be

in her mother`s calming presence for the birth of her first child, he set off, wife in tow,

for the long trip to England. The young Johanna was aghast but had to submit to the

unbending will of her husband. Once settled in London, however, Johanna`s ebullient

spirit returned and her charm soon captivated London society. She wrote in her travel

journal that her new English loving friends offered comforting reassurance and that

before long she was the center of much attention.

Too much attention and too much love for the dour Heinrich, apparently, whose

anxious jealousy shortly escalated into panic. Unable to catch his breath and feeling as

though the tension in his chest would split him asunder, he had to do something. And so,

reversing his course, he abruptly left London, carting his protesting wife, now almost six

months pregnant, back to Danzig during one of the century`s most severe winters. Years

later Johanna described her feelings at being yanked from London: «No one helped me, I

had to overcome my grief alone. The man dragged me, in order to cope with his anxiety,

halfway across Europe.»

This, then, was the stormy setting of the genius`s gestation: a loveless marriage, a

frightened, protesting mother, an anxious, jealous father, and two arduous trips across a

wintry Europe.

5

_________________________

Ahappy life is impossible; the

best that a man can attain is

a heroic life.

_________________________

Leaving Philip`s office, Julius felt stunned. He gripped the banister and unsteadily

descended the stairs and staggered into the sunlight. He stood in front of Philip`s building

and tried to decide whether to turn left or right. The freedom of an unscheduled afternoon

brought confusion rather than joy. Julius had always been focused. When he was not

seeing patients, other important projects and activities—writing, teaching, tennis,

research—clamored for his attention. But today nothing seemed important. He suspected

that nothing hadever been important, that his mind had arbitrarily imbued projects with

importance and then cunningly covered its traces. Today he saw through the ruse of a

lifetime. Today there was nothing important to do, and he ambled aimlessly down Union

Street.

Toward the end of the business section just past Fillmore Street, an old woman

approached him noisily pushing a walker.God, what a sight! Julius thought. He first

averted his face, then turned back to take inventory. Her clothes—several layers of

sweaters capped by a burly overcoat—were preposterous for the sunny day. Her

chipmunk cheeks churned hard, no doubt to keep dentures in place. But worst of all was

the huge excrescence of flesh that buttressed one of her nostrils—a translucent pink wart

the size of a grape, out of which sprouted several long bristles.

Stupid old ladywas Julius`s next thought, which he immediately amended: «She`s

probably no older than me. In fact, she`s my future—the wart, the walker, the wheelchair.

As she came closer, he heard her mumbling: «Now, let`s see what`s in these shops ahead.

What will it be? What will I find?»

«Lady, I have no idea, I`m just walking here,” Julius called out to her.

«I weren`t talking to you.»

«I don`t see anyone else here.»

«That still don`t mean I`m talking to you.»

«If not me, who?» Julius put his hands above his eyes and pantomimed looking up

and down the empty street.

«What`s it your business? Goddamn street freaks,” she muttered as she clanked her

walker past him.

Julius froze for a moment. He looked about him to make certain that no one had

witnessed that interaction. My God, he thought, I`m losing it—what the fuck am I doing?

Good thing I have no patients this afternoon. No doubt about it: spending time with Philip

Slate is not good for my disposition.

Turning toward the intoxicating aroma emanating from Starbucks, Julius decided

that an hour with Philip called for indulgence with a double espresso. He settled into a

window seat and watched the passing show. No gray heads to be seen, inside or outside.

At sixty–five he was the oldest person around, the oldest of the old, and rapidly growing

older inside as his melanoma continued its silent invasion.

Two pert counter clerks flirted with some of the male customers. These were the

girls that had never looked his way, never flirted with him when he was young nor caught

his gaze as he aged. Time to realize that his time would never come, that those nubile,

breasty girls with the Snow White faces would never turn his way with a coy smile and

say, «Hey, haven`t seen you here for a while. How`s it going?» It was not going to

happen. Life was seriously linear and not reversible.

Enough. Enough self–pity. He knew what to say to whiners: find a way to turn your

gaze outward, stretch beyond yourself. Yes, that was the way—find the route to turn this

shit into gold. Why not write about it? Perhaps as a personal journal or blog. Then

something more visible—who knows what?—maybe an article for theJournal of the

American Psychiatric Association on «The Psychiatrist Confronting Mortality.» Or

maybe something commercial for theSunday Times Magazine. He could do it. Or why not

a book? Something likeAutobiography of a Demise. Not bad! Sometimes when you find a

dynamite title, the piece just writes itself. Julius ordered an espresso, took out his pen and

unfolded a paper bag he found on the floor. As he began to scribble, his lips curled into a

slight smile at the humble origins of his powerful book.

Friday November 2, 1990. DDD (death–discovery day) + 16

No doubt about it: searching out Philip Slate was a bad idea. A bad idea to think I could

get something from him. A bad idea to meet with him. Never again. Philip a therapist?

Unbelievable—a therapist sans empathy, sensitivity, caring. He heard me say on the

phone that I had health problems and that these problems were part of the reason I

wanted to meet with him. Yet not one personal question about how I was doing. Not even

a handshake. Frigid. Inhuman. Kept ten feet away from me. I worked like hell for that guy

for three years. Gave him everything. Gave him my best stuff. Ungrateful bastard.

Oh yes, I know what he would say. I can hear that disembodied precise voice of

his: «You and I had a commercial transaction: I gave you money and you provided your

expert services. I paid promptly for every hour of your consultation. Transaction over.

We`re even; I owe you nothing.»

Then he`d add, «Less than nothing, Dr. Hertzfeld, you had the best of our bargain.

You received your full fee, whereas I received nothing of value in return.»

The worst thing is, he`s right. He owes me nothing. I crow about psychotherapy

being a life of service. Service lovingly given. I have no lien on him. Why expect

something from him? And, anyway, whatever it is I crave, he does not have it to give.

«He does not have it to give»—how many times have I said that to how many

patients—about husbands or wives or fathers. Yet I can`t let Philip go, this unrelenting,

callous, ungiving man. Shall I write an ode about the obligation patients owe in later

years to their therapists?

And why does it matter so much? And why, of all my patients, choose to contact

him? I still don`t know. I found a clue in my case notes—the feeling that I was talking to a

young phantasm of myself. Perhaps there`s more than a trace of Philip in me, in the me

who in my teens and twenties and thirties was whipped around by hormones. I thought I

knew what he was going through, I thought that I had an inside track to healing him. Is

that why I tried so hard? Why he got more attention and energy from me than most of my

other patients combined? In every therapist`s practice, there is always some patient who

consumes a disproportionate amount of the therapist`s energy and attention—Philip was

that person for me for three years.

Julius returned home that evening to a cold dark house. His son, Larry, had spent

the last three days with him but that morning had returned to Baltimore, where he did

neurobiological research at Johns Hopkins. Julius was almost relieved that Larry had

left—the anguished look on his face and his loving but clumsy efforts to comfort his

father had brought more sorrow than serenity. He started to phone Marty, one of his

colleagues in his support group, but felt too despondent, hung up the phone, and instead

turned on his computer to enter the notes scribbled on the crumpled Starbucks paper bag.

«You have e–mail,” greeted him, and, to his surprise, there was a message from Philip. He

read it eagerly:

At the end of our discussion today you asked about Schopenhauer and how I was

helped by his philosophy. You also indicated that you might want to learn more about

him. It occurs to me that you might be interested in my lecture at Coastal College

next Monday evening at 7P.M. (Toyon Hall, 340 Fulton St.). I am teaching a survey

course on European philosophy, and on Monday I will give a brief overview of

Schopenhauer (I must cover two thousand years in twelve weeks). Perhaps we can

chat a bit after the lecture. Philip Slate

Without hesitation Julius e–mailed Philip:Thanks. I`ll be there. He opened his

appointment book to the following Monday and penciled in «Toyon Hall, 340 Fulton

7P.M. ”

On Mondays Julius led a therapy group from four–thirty till six. Earlier in the day he had

pondered whether to tell the group about his diagnosis. Though he had decided to

postpone telling his individual patients until he regained his equilibrium, the group posed

a different problem: group members often focused upon him, and the chances of someone

spotting some change in his mood and commenting upon it were much greater.

But his concerns were unfounded. The members had readily accepted his excuse of

the flu for having canceled the two previous meetings and then moved on to catch up on

the last two weeks of each other`s lives. Stuart, a short, pudgy pediatrician who

perpetually seemed distracted, as though he were in a rush to get to his next patient,

seemed pressured and asked for time from the group. This was a most unusual

occurrence; in Stuart`s year in the group he had rarely asked for help. He had originally

entered the group under duress: his wife informed him by e–mail that unless he entered

therapy and made some significant changes she was going to leave him. She added that

she had conveyed this via e–mail because he paid more attention to electronic

communication than anything said to him directly. During the past week his wife had

upped the ante by moving out of their bedroom, and much of the meeting was spent on

helping Stuart explore his feelings about her withdrawal.

Julius loved this group. Often the courage of the members took his breath away as

they regularly broke new ground and took great risks. Today`s meeting was no exception.

Everyone supported Stuart for his willingness to show his vulnerability, and the time

whizzed by. By the end of the meeting Julius felt much better. So caught up was he by

the drama of the meeting that for an hour and a half he forgot his own despair. That was

not unusual. All group therapists know about the wonderfully healing qualities inherent

in the atmosphere of the working group. Time and again Julius had entered a meeting

disquieted and left considerably better even though he had not, of course, explicitly

addressed any of his personal issues.

He had barely time for a quick dinner at We Be Sushi a short distance from his

office. He was a regular there and was greeted loudly by Mark, the sushi chef, as he took

his seat. When alone, he always preferred sitting at the counter—like all of his patients,

he was uncomfortable eating by himself at a restaurant table.

Julius ordered his usual: California rolls, broiled eel, and a variety of vegetarian

maki. He loved sushi but carefully avoided raw fish because of his fear of parasites. That

whole battle against outside marauders—now, what a joke it seemed! How ironic that, in

the end, it would be an inside job. To hell with it; Julius threw caution to the wind and

ordered some ahi sushi from the astonished chef. He ate with great relish before rushing

out to Toyon Hall and to his first meeting with Arthur Schopenhauer.

6

Mom and Pop

Schopenhauer

–

Zu Hause

_________________________

Thesolid foundations of our

view of the world and thus its

depth or shallowness are

formed in the years of

childhood. Such a view is

subsequently elaborated and

perfected, yet essentially it

is not altered.

_________________________

What kind of a man was Heinrich Schopenhauer? Tough, dour, repressed, unyielding,

proud. The story is told that in 1783, five years before Arthur`s birth, Danzig was

blockaded by the Prussians and food and fodder were scarce. The Schopenhauer family

was forced to accept the billeting of an enemy general at their country estate. As a

reward, the Prussian officer offered to grant Heinrich the privilege of forage for his

horses. Heinrich`s reply? «My stable is well stocked, sir, and when the food supply runs

out I will have my horses put down.»

And Arthur`s mother, Johanna? Romantic, lovely, imaginative, vivacious,

flirtatious. Though all of Danzig in 1787 considered the union of Heinrich and Johanna a

brilliant event, it proved to be a tragic mismatch. The Troiseners, Johanna`s family, came

from a modest background and had long regarded the lofty Schopenhauers with awe.

Hence, when Heinrich, at the age of thirty–eight, came to court the seventeen–year–old

Johanna, the Troiseners were jubilant and Johanna acquiesced to her parents` choice.

Did Johanna regard her marriage as a mistake? Read her words written years later

as she warned other young women facing a matrimonial decision: «Splendor, rank, and

title exercise an all too seductive power over a young girl`s heart luring women into tying

a marriage knot...a false step for which they must suffer the hardest punishment the rest

of their lives.»

«Suffer the hardest punishment the rest of their lives»—strong words from Arthur`s

mother. In her journals she confided that before Heinrich courted her she had had a young

love, which fate took from her, and it was in a state of resignation that she had accepted

Heinrich Schopenhauer`s marriage proposal. Did she have a choice? Most likely not. This

typical eighteenth–century marriage of convenience was arranged by her family for

reasons of property and status. Was there love? There was no question of love between

Heinrich and Johanna Schopenhauer. Never. Later, in her memoirs, she wrote, «I no more

pretended ardent love than he demanded it.» Nor was there abundant love for others in

their household—not for the young Arthur Schopenhauer, nor for his younger sister,

Adele, born nine years later.

Love between parents begets love for the children. Occasionally, one hears tales of

parents whose great love for each other consumes all the love available in the household,

leaving only love–cinders for the children. But this zero–sum economic model of love

makes little sense. The opposite seems true: the more one loves, the more that one

responds to children, to everyone, in a loving manner.

Arthur`s love–bereft childhood had serious implications for his future. Children

deprived of a maternal love bond fail to develop the basic trust necessary to love

themselves, to believe that others will love them, or to love being alive. In adulthood they

become estranged, withdraw into themselves, and often live in an adversarial relationship

with others. Such was the psychological landscape that would ultimately inform Arthur`s

worldview.