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.

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.