The Schopenhauer Cure

A Novel

Irvin D. Yalom

To my community of older buddies who grace me with their friendship, share life`s

inexorable diminishments and losses, and continue to sustain me with their wisdom and

dedication to the life of the mind: Robert Berger, Murray Bilmes, Martel Bryant, Dagfinn

Føllesdahl, Joseph Frank, Van Harvey, Julius Kaplan, Herbert Kotz, Morton Lieberman,

Walter Sokel, Saul Spiro, and Larry Zaroff.

11

Philip`s First

Meeting

_________________________

Thegreatest wisdom is to make

the enjoyment of the present

the supreme object of life

because that is the only

reality, all else being the

play of thought. But we could

just as well call it our

greatest folly because that

which exists only a moment and

vanishes as a dream can never

be worth a serious effort.

_________________________

Philip arrived fifteen minutes early for his first group therapy meeting wearing the same

clothes as in his two previous encounters with Julius: the wrinkled, faded checkered shirt,

khaki pants, and corduroy jacket. Marveling at Philip`s consistent indifference to clothes,

office furnishings, his student audience, or, seemingly, anyone with whom he interacted,

Julius once again began to question his decision to invite Philip into the group. Was it

sound professional judgment, or was his chutzpah raising its ugly head again?

Chutzpah: raw nervy brashness.Chutzpah: best defined by the renowned story of

the boy who murdered his parents and then pleaded for mercy from the court on the

grounds that he was an orphan.Chutzpah often entered Julius`s mind when he reflected

upon his approach to life. Perhaps he had been imbued with chutzpah from the start, but

he first consciously embraced it in the autumn of his fifteenth year when his family

relocated from the Bronx to Washington, D.C. His father, who had had a financial

setback, moved the family into a small row house on Farragut Street in northwest

Washington. The nature of his father`s financial difficulties was off limits to any inquiry,

but Julius was convinced that it had something to do with Aqueduct racetrack and She`s

All That, a horse he owned with Vic Vicello, one of his poker cronies. Vic was an elusive

figure who wore a pink handkerchief in his yellow sports jacket and took care never to

enter their home if his mother was present.

His father`s new job was managing a liquor store owned by a cousin felled at forty–five by a coronary, that dark enemy which had either maimed or killed a whole

generation of fifty–year–old male Ashkenazi Jews raised on sour cream and fat–flaked

brisket. His dad hated his new job, but it kept the family solvent; not only did it pay well,

but its long hours kept Dad away from Laurel and Pimlico, the local racetracks.

On Julius`s first day of school at Roosevelt High in September 1955, he made a

momentous decision: he would redo himself. He was unknown in Washington, a free soul

unencumbered by the past. His past three years at P.S. 1126, his Bronx junior high

school, were nothing to be proud of. Gambling had been so much more interesting than

other school activities that he spent every afternoon at the bowling alley lining up

challenge games betting on himself or on his partner, Marty Geller—he of the great left–handed hook. He also ran a small bookie operation, where he offered ten–to–one odds to

anyone picking any three baseball players to get six hits among them on any given day.

No matter who the pigeons picked—Mantle, Kaline, Aaron, Vernon, or Stan (the Man)

Musial—they rarely won, at best once in twenty to thirty bets. Julius ran with like–minded punks, developed the aura of a tough street fighter in order to intimidate would–be welchers, dumbed himself down in class to remain cool, and cut many a school

afternoon to watch Mantle patrol the Yankee Stadium center field.

Everything changed the day he and his parents were called into the principal`s

office and confronted with his bookie ledger–book, for which he had been frantically

searching the previous couple of days. Though punishment was meted out—no evenings

out for the remaining two months of the school year, no bowling alley, no trips to Yankee

Stadium, no after–school sports, no allowance—Julius could see his father`s heart wasn`t

in it: he was entirely intrigued by the details of Julius`s three–player, six–hit caper. Still,

Julius had admired the principal, and falling from his grace was such a wake–up call that

he attempted to reclaim himself. But it was too little, too late; the best he could do was to

move his grades up to low Bs. It wasn`t possible to form new friendships—he was role–locked, and no one could relate to the new boy Julius had decided to become.

As a consequence of this episode, the latter–day Julius had an exquisite sensitivity

to the phenomenon of «role–lock»: how often had he seen group therapy patients change

dramatically but continue to be perceived as the same person by the other group

members. Happens also in families. Many of his improved patients had a hell of a time

when visiting their parents: they had to guard against being sucked back into their old

family role and had to expend considerable energy persuading parents and siblings that

they were indeed changed.

Julius`s great experiment with reinvention commenced with his family`s move. On

that first day of school in Washington, D.C., a balmy Indian summer September day,

Julius crunched through the fallen sycamore leaves and strode into the front door of

Roosevelt High, searching for a master strategy to make himself over. Noticing the

broadsides posted outside the auditorium advertising the candidates for class president,

Julius had an inspired thought, and even before he learned the location of the boys` room

he had posted his name for the election.

The election bid was a long shot, beyond long shot—longer odds than betting on

the tightfisted Clark Griffith`s inept Washington Senators to climb out of last place. He

knew nothing about Roosevelt High and had yet to meet a single classmate. Would the

old Julius from the Bronx have run for office? Not in a thousand years. But that was the

point; precisely for this reason, the new Julius took the plunge. What was the worst that

could happen? His name would be out there, and all would recognize Julius Hertzfeld as

a force, a potential leader, a boy to be reckoned with. What`s more, he loved the action.

Of course, his opponents would dismiss him as a bad joke, a gnat, an unknown

know–nothing. Expecting such criticism, Julius readied himself and prepared a riff about

the ability of a newcomer to see fault lines invisible to those living too close to the

corruption. He had the gift of gab, honed by long hours in the bowling alley of wheedling

and cajoling suckers into match games. The new Julius had nothing to lose and fearlessly

strolled up to clusters of students to announce, «Hi, I`m Julius, the new kid on the block,

and I hope you`ll support me in election for class president. I don`t know crap about

school politics, but, you know, sometimes a fresh look is the best look. Besides, I`m

absolutely independent—don`t belong to any cliques because I don`t know anybody.»

As things turned out, not only did Julius recreate himself, but he damn near won

the election. With a football team that had lost eighteen straight games and a basketball

team almost as hapless, Roosevelt High was demoralized. The two other candidates were

vulnerable: Catherine Shumann, the brainy daughter of the diminutive long–faced

minister who led the prayer before each school assembly, was prissy and unpopular, and

Richard Heishman, the handsome, red–haired, red–necked football halfback, had a great

many enemies. Julius rode the crest of a robust protest vote. In addition, to his great

surprise, he immediately was embraced vigorously by virtually all the Jewish students,

about 30 percent of the student body, who had heretofore kept a low, apolitical profile.

They loved him, the love of the timid, hesitant, make–no–waves Mason–Dixon Yid for the

gutsy, brash New York Jew.

That election was the turning point of Julius`s life. So much reinforcement did he

receive for his brazenness that he rebuilt his whole identity on the foundation of raw

chutzpah. The three Jewish high school fraternities vied for him; he was perceived as

having both guts and that ever so elusive holy grail of adolescence, «personality.» Soon

he was surrounded by kids at lunch in the cafeteria and was often spotted walking hand in

hand after school with the lovely Miriam Kaye, the editor of the school newspaper and

the one student smart enough to challenge Catherine Schumann for valedictorian. He and

Miriam were soon inseparable. She introduced him to art and aesthetic sensibility; he was

never to make her appreciate the high drama of bowling or baseball.

Yes, chutzpah had taken him a long way. He cultivated it, took great pride in it,

and, in later life, beamed when he heard himself referred to as an original, a maverick, the

therapist who had the guts to take on the cases that had defeated others. But chutzpah had

its dark side—grandiosity. More than once Julius had erred by attempting to do more

than could be done, by asking patients to make more change than was constitutionally

possible for them, by putting patients through a long and, ultimately, unrewarding course

of therapy.

So was it compassion or sheer clinical tenacity that led Julius to think he could yet

reclaim Philip? Or was it grandiose chutzpah? He truly did not know. As he led Philip to

the group therapy room, Julius took a long look at his reluctant patient. With his straight

light brown hair combed straight back without a part, his skin stretched tight across his

high cheekbones, his eyes wary, his step heavy, Philip looked as though he were being

led to his execution.

Julius felt a wave of compassion and, in his softest, most comforting voice, offered

solace. «You know, Philip, therapy groups are infinitely complex, but they possess one

absolutely predictable feature.»

If Julius expected the natural curious inquiry about the «one absolutely predictable

feature,” he gave no sign of disappointment at Philip`s silence. Instead he merely

continued speaking as though Philip had expressed appropriate curiosity. «And that

feature is that the first meeting of a therapy group is invariably less uncomfortable and

more engaging than the new member expects.»

«I have no discomfort, Julius.»

«Well then, simply file what I said. Just in case you run across some.»

Philip stopped in the hallway at the door to the office in which they had met a few

days before, but Julius touched his elbow and guided him down the hall to the next door,

which opened into a room lined on three sides with ceiling–to–floor bookshelves. Three

windows of wood–lined panes on the fourth wall looked out into a Japanese garden

graced by several dwarf five–needle pines, two clusters of tiny boulders, and a narrow

eight–foot–long pond in which golden carp glided. The furniture in the room was simple

and functional, consisting only of a small table next to the door, seven comfortable Rattan

chairs arranged in a circle, and two others stored in corners.

«Here we are. This is my library and group room. While we`re waiting for the

other members, let me give you the nuts–and–bolts housekeeping drill. On Mondays, I

unlock the front door about ten minutes before the time of the group, and the members

just enter on their own into this room. When I come in at four–thirty, we start pretty

promptly, and we end at six. To ease my billing and bookkeeping task, everyone pays at

the end of each session—just leave a check on the table by the door. Questions?»

Philip shook his head no and looked around the room, inhaling deeply. He walked

directly to the shelves, put his nose closely to the rows of leather–bound volumes, and

inhaled again, evincing great pleasure. He remained standing and industriously began

perusing book titles.

In the next few minutes five group members filed in, each glancing at Philip`s

back, before taking seats. Despite the bustle of their entrance, Philip did not turn his head

or in any way interrupt his task of examining Julius`s library.

Over his thirty–five years of leading groups, Julius had seen a lot of folks enter

therapy groups. The pattern was predictable: the new member enters heavy with

apprehension, behaving in a deferential manner to the other members, who welcome the

neophyte and introduce themselves. Occasionally, a newly formed group, which

mistakenly believes that benefits are directly proportional to the amount of attention each

receives from the therapist, may resent newcomers, but established groups welcome

them: they appreciate that a full roster adds to, rather than detracts from, the effectiveness

of the therapy.

Once in a while newcomers jump right into the discussion, but generally they are

silent for much of the first meeting as they try to figure out the rules and wait until

someone invites them to participate. But a new member so indifferent that he turns his

back and ignores the others in the group? Never before had Julius seenthat. Not even in

groups of psychotic patients on the psychiatric ward.

Surely, Julius thought, he had made a blunder by inviting Philip into the group.

Having to tell the group about his cancer was more than enough on his plate for the day.

And he felt burdened by having to worry about Philip.

What was going on with Philip? Was it possible that he was simply overcome by

apprehension or shyness? Unlikely. No, he`s probably pissed at my insisting on his

entering a group, and, in his passive–aggressive way, he`s giving me and the group the

finger. God, Julius thought, I`d just like to hang him out to dry. Just do nothing. Let him

sink or swim. It would be a pleasure to sit back and enjoy the blistering group attack that

will surely come.

Julius did not often remember joke punch lines, but one that he had heard years ago

returned to him now. One morning a son said to his mother, «I don`t want to go to school

today.»

«Why not?» asked his mother.

«Two reasons: I hate the students, and they hate me.»

Mother responds, «There are two reasons you have to go to school: first, you`re

forty–five years old and, second, you`re the principal.»

Yes, he was all grown up. And he was the therapist of the group. And it was his job

to integrate new members, to protect them from others and from themselves. Though he

almost never started a meeting himself, preferring to encourage the members to take

charge of running the group, today he had no choice.

«Four–thirty. Time to get started. Philip, why don`t you grab a seat.» Philip turned

to face him but made no movement toward a chair. Is he deaf? Julius thought. A social

imbecile? Only after Julius vigorously gestured with his eyeballs to one of the empty

chairs did Philip seat himself.

To Philip he said, «Here`s our group. There`s one member who won`t be here

tonight, Pam, who`s on a two–month trip.» Then, turning to the group, «I mentioned a few

meetings ago that I might be introducing a new member. I met with Philip last week, and

he`s beginning today.» Of course he`s beginning today, Julius thought. Stupid, shithead

comment. That`s it. No more handholding. Sink or swim.

Just at that moment Stuart, rushing in from the pediatric clinic at the hospital and

still wearing a white clinical coat, charged into the room and plunked himself down,

muttering an apology for being late. All members then turned to Philip, and four of them

introduced themselves and welcomed him: «I`m Rebecca, Tony, Bonnie, Stuart. Hello.

Great to see you. Welcome. Glad to have you. We need some new blood—I mean new

input.»

The remaining member, an attractive man with a prematurely bald pate flanked by

a rim of light brown hair and the hefty body of a football linesman somewhat gone to

seed, said, in a surprisingly soft voice, «Hi, I`m Gill. And, Philip, I hope you won`t feel

I`m ignoring you, but I absolutely, urgently need some time in the group today. I`ve

never needed the group as much as today.»

No response from Philip.

«Okay, Philip?» Gill repeated.

Startled, Philip opened his eyes widely and nodded.

Gill turned toward the familiar faces in the group and began. «A lot has happened,

and it all came to a head this morning following a session with my wife`s shrink. I`ve

been telling you guys over the past few weeks about how the therapist gave Rose a book

about child abuse that convinces her that she was abused as a child. It`s like a fixed

idea—what do you call it...an idea feexed?» Gill turned to Julius.

«An idГ©e fixe,” Philip instantaneously interjected with perfect accent.

«Right. Thanks,” said Gill, who shot a quick look at Philip and added, sotto voce,

«Whoa, that was fast,” and then returned to his narrative. «Well, Rose has an idГ©e fixe

that her father sexually molested her when she was young. She can`t let it go. Does she

remember any sexual event happening? No. Witnesses? No. But her therapist believes

that if she`s depressed, fearful about sex, has stuff like lapses in attention and

uncontrollable emotions, especially rage at men, then shemust have been molested. That`s

the message of that goddamned book. And her therapist swears by it. So, for months, as

I`ve told you ad nauseam, we`ve been talking about little else. My wife`s therapy is our

life. No time for anything else. No other topic of conversation. Our sex life is defunct.

Nothing. Forget it. A couple of weeks ago she asked me to phone her father—she won`t

talk to him herself—and invite him to come to her therapy session. She wanted me to

attend, too—for ‘protection,` she said.

«So I phoned him. He agreed immediately. Yesterday he took a bus down from

Portland and appeared at the therapy session this morning carrying his beat–up suitcase

because he was going to head right back to the bus station after we met. The session was

a disaster. Absolute mayhem. Rose just unloaded on him and kept on unloading. Without

limits, without letup, without a word of acknowledgment that her old man had come

several hundred miles for her—for her ninety–minute therapy session. Accusing him of

everything, even of inviting his neighbors, his poker chums, his coworkers at the fire

department—he was a fireman back then—to have sex with her when she was a child.»

«What did the father do?» asked Rebecca, a tall, slender, forty–year–old woman of

exceptional beauty who had been leaning forward, listening intently to Gill.

«He behaved like a mensch. He`s a nice old man, about seventy years old, kindly,

sweet. This is the first time I met him. He was amazing—God, I wish I had a father like

that. Just sat there and took it and told Rose that, if she had all that anger, it was probably

best to let it out. He just kept gently denying all her crazy charges and took a guess—a

good one, I think—that what she is really angry about is his walking out on the family

when she was twelve. He said her anger was fertilized—his word, he`s a farmer—by her

mother, who had been poisoning her mind against him since she was a child. He told her

he had had to leave, that he had been depressed out of his gourd living with her mother

and would be dead now if he had stayed. And let me tell you, I know Rose`s mother, and

he`s got a point. A good one.

«So, at the end of the session he asked for a ride to the bus terminal, and before I

could answer, Rose said she wouldn`t feel safe in the same car with him. ‘Got it,` he said,

and walked away, lugging his suitcase.

«Well, ten minutes later Rose and I were driving down Market Street, and I see

him—a white–haired, stooped old man pulling his suitcase. It was starting to rain, and I

say to myself, ‘This is the shits.` I lost it and told Rose, ‘He comes here for you—for

your therapy session—he comes all the way from Portland, it`s raining, and goddamnit

I`m taking him to the bus station.` I pulled over to the curb and offered him a lift. Rose

stares daggers at me. ‘If he gets in, I get out,` she says. I say, ‘Be my guest.` I point to

Starbucks on the street and tell her to wait there and I`ll come back in a few minutes. She

gets out and stalks off. That was about five hours ago. She never did show up at

Starbucks. I drove over to Golden Gate Park and been walking around since. I`m thinking

of never going home.»

With that, Gill flopped back in his chair, exhausted.

The members—Tony, Rebecca, Bonnie, and Stuart—broke out into a chorus of

approval: «Great, Gill.» «About time, Gill.» «Wow, you really did it.» «Whoa, good

move.» Tony said, «I can`t tell you how glad I am that you tore yourself loose from that

bitch.» «If you need a bed,” said Bonnie, nervously running her hands through her frizzy

brown hair and adjusting her goggle–shaped, yellow–tinted spectacles, «I`ve got a spare

room. Don`t worry, you`re safe,” she added with a giggle, «I`m far too old for you and

my daughter`s home.»

Julius, not happy with the pressure the group was applying (he had seen too many

members drop out of too many therapy groups because they were ashamed of

disappointing the group), made his first intervention, «Strong feedback you`re getting,

Gill. How do you feel about it?»

«Great. It feels great. Only I...I don`t want to disappoint everybody. This is

happening so fast—this all just happened this morning...I`m shaky and I`m fluid...don`t

know what I`m going to do.»

«You mean,” said Julius, «you don`t want to substitute your wife`s imperatives

with the group`s imperatives.»

«Yeah. I guess. Yeah, I see what you mean. Right. But it`s a mixed bag. I really

want, really really need this encouragement...grateful for it...I need guidance—this may

be a turning point in my life. Heard from everyone but you, Julius. And of course from

our new member. Philip, is it?»

Philip nodded.

«Philip, I know you don`t know about my situation, butyou do.» Gill turned to face

Julius. «What about it? What doyou think I should do?»

Julius involuntarily flinched and hoped it had not been visible. Like most

therapists, he hated that question—the «damned if you do, damned if you don`t» question.

He had seen it coming.

«Gill, you`re not going to like my answer. But here it is. I can`t tell you what to do:

that`s your job, your decision, not mine. One reason you`re here in this group is to learn

to trust your own judgment. Another reason is that everything I know about Rose and

your marriage has come to me through you. And you can`t avoid giving me biased

information. What I can do is help you focus on how you contribute to your life

predicament. We can`t understand or change Rose; it`syou —your feelings, your

behavior—that`s what counts here becausethat`s what you can change.»

The group fell silent. Julius was right; Gill did not like that answer. Neither did the

other members.

Rebecca, who had taken out two barrettes and was flouncing her long black hair

before replacing them, broke the silence by turning to Philip. «You`re new here and don`t

know the backstory that the rest of us know. But sometimes from the mouth of newborn

babes....»

Philip sat silent. It was unclear whether he had even heard Rebecca.

«Yeah, you have a take on this, Philip?» said Tony, in what was, for him, an

unusually gentle tone. Tony was a swarthy man with deep acne scars on his cheeks and a

lean, graceful athletic body exhibited to good advantage in his black San Francisco

Giants T–shirt and tight jeans.

«I have an observation and a piece of advice,” said Philip, hands folded, head tilted

back, and eyes fixed on the ceiling. «Nietzsche once wrote that a major difference

between man and the cow was that the cow knew how to exist, how to live without

angst—that is,fear —in the blessed now, unburdened by the past and unaware of the

terrors of the future. But we unfortunate humans are so haunted by the past and future

that we can only saunter briefly in the now. Do you know why we so yearn for the golden

days of childhood? Nietzsche tells us it`s because those childhood days were the carefree

days, daysfree of care, days before we were weighted down by leaden, painful memories,

by the debris of the past. Allow me to make one marginal note: I refer to a Nietzsche

essay, but this thought was not original—in this, as in so much else, he looted the works

of Schopenhauer.»

He paused. A loud silence rang out in the group. Julius squirmed in his chair,

thinking, Oh shit, I must have been out of my fucking mind to bring this guy here. This is

the goddamnedest, most bizarre way I`ve ever seen a patient come into a group.

Bonnie broke the silence. Turning her gaze squarely upon him, she said, «That`s

fascinating, Philip. I know I keep yearning for my childhood, but I never understood it

that way, that childhood feels free and golden because there`s no past to weigh you down.

Thanks, I`m going to remember that.»

«Me too. Interesting stuff,” said Gill. «But you said you had advice for me?»

«Yes, here`s my advice.» Philip spoke evenly, softly, still making no eye contact.

«Your wife is one of those people who is particularly unable to live in the present because

she is so heavily laden with the freight of the past. She is a sinking ship. She`s going

down. My advice to you is to jump overboard and start swimming. She`ll produce a

powerful wake when she goes under, so I urge you to swim away as fast and as hard as

you can.»

Silence. The group seemed stunned.

«Hey, no one is going to accuse you,” said Gill, «of pulling your punches. I asked a

question. You gave an answer. I appreciate that. A lot. Welcome to the group. Any other

comments you got—I want to hear them.»

«Well,” said Philip, still looking upward, «in that case let me add one additional

thought. Kierkegaard described some individuals as being in ‘double despair,` that is,

they are in despair but too self–deceived to know even that they are in despair. I think you

may be in double despair. Here`s what I mean: most of my own suffering is a result of

my being driven by desires, and then, once I satisfy a desire, I enjoy a moment of

satiation, which soon is transformed into boredom, which is then interrupted by another

desire springing up. Schopenhauer felt this was the universal human condition—wanting,

momentary satiation, boredom, further wanting.

«Back to you—I question whether you`ve yet explored this cycle of endless desires

within yourself. Perhaps you`ve been so preoccupied with your wife`s wishes it`s kept

you from becoming acquainted with your own desires? Isn`t that why others here were

applauding you today? Wasn`t it because you were finally refusing to be defined by her

wishes? In other words, I`m asking whether your work on yourself has been delayed or

derailed by your preoccupation with your wife`s wishes.»

Gill listened, mouth gaping, gaze fixed on Philip. «That`s deep. I know there`s

something deep and important in what you`re saying—in this double despair idea—but

I`m not getting it all.»

All eyes were now on Philip, who continued to have eyes only for the ceiling.

«Philip,” said Rebecca, now finished with replacing her barrettes, «weren`t you saying

that Gill`s personal work won`t really begin until he liberates himself from his wife?»

«Or,” Tony said, «that his involvement with her prevents him from knowing how

fucked–up he really is? Hell, I know this is true for me and the way I relate to my work—

I been thinking this past week that I`m so busy being ashamed of being a carpenter—

being blue–collar, being low–income, being looked down on—that I never get around to

thinking about the real shit I should be dealing with.»

Julius watched in amazement as others, thirsty for Philip`s every word, chimed in.

He felt competitive urges rising but quelled them by reminding himself that the group`s

purposes were being served.Cool it, Julius, he said to himself,the group needs you;

they`re not going to desert you for Philip. What`s going on here is great; they are

assimilating the new member, and they are also each laying out agendas for future work.

He had planned to talk about his diagnosis in the group today. In a sense his hand

was now forced because he had already told Philip he had a melanoma and, to avoid the

impression of a special relationship with him, had to share it with the whole group. But

he had been preempted. First there was Gill`s emergency, and then there was the group`s

total fascination with Philip. He checked the clock. Ten minutes left. Not enough time to

lay this on them. Julius resolved that he would absolutely begin the next meeting with the

bad news. He remained silent and let the clock run out.