"The Schopenhauer Cure" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ялом Ирвин)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. 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. |
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