"I don't want to get caught in this crossfire. Some big cannons being wheeled out," said Gill.
"Yeah," said Stuart, "neither of them can resist the
opportunity for a jab. Philip's got to comment on someone else using Schopenhauer's phrase, and Pam can't resist the opportunity to call Philip a monstrous joke."
"I didn't say he was a monstrous joke. I said..."
"Get off it, Pam, you're nitpicking. You know what I
meant." Stuart held his ground. "And anyway that blowup about
Nabokov--that was out of line, Pam. You bad-mouth his hero, and then you praise someone else who borrows Schopenhauer's words.
What's so wrong with Philip setting you straight? What's the big crime with his pointing out Schopenhauer's priority?"
"I gotta say something," said Tony. "As usual I don't know
who these dudes are--at least not Nabo...Nobo?
"Nabokov," said Pam, in the soft voice she reserved for
Tony. "He's a great Russian writer. You may have heard of his
novel Lolita. "
"Yeah, I saw that. Well, in this kind of talk I get into a
vicious circle--not knowing makes me feel stupid, then I clam up, and then I feel more stupid. I've got to keep trying to break that pattern by speaking out." He turned to Julius: "So to answer your question about feelings, that's one feeling--stupid. Another is that for one instant, when he said, 'Is that vague enough for you?' I got a glimpse of Philip's teeth--and they're sharp teeth, real sharp.
And some other feelings toward Pam," Tony turned to face her,
"Pam, you're my girl--I really dig you, but I'll tell you
something: I sure don't want to get on your bad side. "
"I hear you," said Pam.
"And, and..." said Tony, "I forgot the most important thing
I was going to say--that this whole argument has gotten us off the track. We were talking about how we might be protecting or
avoiding you, Julius. Then with Pam and Philip we got off the
topic quick. So aren't we avoiding you again?"
"You know, I don't feel that now. When we work as
intimately as we're doing now, we never stay on a single trail. The stream of thought keeps overflowing into new channels. And,
incidentally," Julius turned to Philip, "I use that term--
intimately--quite deliberately. I think your anger--which we see breaking through here for the first time--is truly a sign of
intimacy. I think you care enough about Pam to be angry at her."
Julius knew Philip would not answer on his own and nudged
him. "Philip?"
Shaking his head, Philip replied, "I don't know how to
assess your hypothesis. But there is something else I want to say. I confess that, like Pam, I also have been looking for comforting or at least relevant things to say to you. I have followed
Schopenhauer's practice of ending each day reading from the
works of Epictetus or from the Upanishads." Philip glanced in
Tony's direction. "Epictetus was a Roman philosopher of the
second century, and the Upanishads are an ancient sacred Hindu text. The other night I read a passage from Epictetus that I thought would be of value, and I've made copies of it. I've translated it loosely from the Latin into current vernacular." Philip reached into his briefcase, handed out copies to each member, and then, eyes closed, recited the passage from memory.
When, on a sea voyage, the ship is brought to anchor, you go
out to fetch water and gather a few roots and shells by the way.
But you always need to keep your mind fixed on the ship, and
constantly to look around, lest at any time the master of the
ship call, and you must heed that call and cast away all those things, lest you be treated like the sheep that are bound and
thrown into the hold.
So it is with human life also. And if there be available
wife and children instead of shells and roots, nothing should
hinder us from taking them. But if the master call, run to the ship, forsaking all those things, and without looking behind.
And if thou be in old age, go not far from the ship at any time, lest the master should call, and thou be not ready.
Philip ended and held out his arms as though to say, "There
it is."
The group studied the passage. They were bewildered. Stuart
broke the silence, "I'm trying, but, Philip, I don't get it. What's the value of this for Julius? Or for us?"
Julius pointed to his watch. "Sorry to say we're out of time.
But let me be teacherly and make one point. I often view a
statement or act from two different points of view--from
its content and from its process --and by process I mean what it tells us about the nature of the relationship between the parties involved. Like you, Stuart, I don't immediately understand the content 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 the process. 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."
30
_________________________
Lifecan
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 onl
y 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's something 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 did not 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 dropout 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?
31
H
o
w
A
r
t
h
u
r
L
i
v
e
d
_________________________
Evenwhen 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,
Schopenhauer's followers confronted Wilhelm Gwinner, the
executor of Schopenhauer's will, about the missing document.
Gwinner informed them that "About Myself" no longer existed; as Schopenhauer had instructed him he had burned it immediately
after his death.
Yet a short time later the same Wilhelm Gwinner wrote the
first biography of Arthur Schopenhauer, and in it Schopenhauer's evangelists insisted they recognized sections of the "About
Myself" document either in direct quotes or in paraphrase. Had Gwinner copied the manuscript before burning it? Or not burned it all and instead plundered it for use in his biography? Controversy swirled for decades, and ultimately another Schopenhauer scholar reconstituted the document from Gwinner's book and from other
of Schopenhauer's writings and published the forty-seven—
page
at the end of the four-volume Nachschlass
(Manuscript Remains). "About Me" is an odd reading experience
because each paragraph is followed by a description of its
Byzantine provenance, often longer than the text itself.
Why was it that Arthur Schopenhauer never had a job? The
story of Arthur's kamikaze strategy for obtaining a position at the university is another one of those quirky anecdotes included in every biographical account of Schopenhauer's life. In 1820, at the age of thirty-two, he was offered his first teaching job, a