during a meeting which began with Rebecca and Bonnie both
telling Pam that she had changed--for the worse--since Philip had entered the group. All the sweet, loving, generous parts of her had disappeared from sight, and, though her anger was not as vicious as in her first confrontation with him, still, Bonnie said, it was always present and had frozen into something hard and relentless.
"I've seen Philip change a great deal in the past few
months," said Rebecca, "but you're so stuck--just like you were with John and Earl. Do you want to hold on to your rage forever?"
Others pointed out that Philip had been polite, that he had
responded fully to every one of Pam's inquiries, even to those laced with sarcasm.
"Be polite," said Pam, "then you will be able to manipulate
others. Just like you can work wax only after you have warmed it."
"What?" asked Stuart. Others members looked quizzical.
"I'm just quoting Philip's mentor. That's one of
Schopenhauer's choice tidbits of advice--and that's what I think of Philip's politeness. I never mentioned it here, but when I first considered grad school I considered working on Schopenhauer.
But after several weeks of studying his work and his life, I grew to despise the man so much I dropped the idea."
"So, you identify Philip with Schopenhauer?" said Bonnie.
"Identify? Philip is Schopenhauer--twin-brained, the living embodiment of that wretched man. I could tell you things about his philosophy and life that would curdle your blood. And, yes, I do believe Philip manipulates instead of relating--and I'll tell you this: it gives me the shivers to think of him indoctrinating others with Schopenhauer's life-hating doctrine."
"Will you ever see Philip as he is now?" said Stuart. "He's
not the same person you knew fifteen years ago. That incident
between you distorts everything; you can't get past it, and you can't forgive him."
"That 'incident'? You make it sound like a hangnail. It's
more than an incident. As for forgiving, don't you think some
things exist that are not forgivable?"
"Because you are unforgiving does not mean that things are
unforgivable," said Philip in a voice uncharacteristically charged with emotion. "Many years ago you and I made a short-term social contract. We offered each other sexual excitement and release. I fulfilled my part of it. I made sure you were sexually gratified, and I did not feel I had further obligation. The truth is that I got something and you got something. I had sexual pleasure and
release, and so did you. I owe you nothing. I explicitly stated in our conversation following that event that I had a pleasurable evening but did not wish to continue our relationship. How could I have been clearer?"
"I'm not talking about clarity," Pam shot back, "I'm talking
about charity--love, caritas, concern for others."
"You insist that I share your worldview, that I experience
life the same way as you."
"I only wish you had shared the pain, suffered as I did."
"In that case I have good news for you. You will be pleased
to know that after that incident your friend Molly wrote a letter condemning me to every member of my department as well as to
the university president, provost, and the faculty senate. Despite my receiving a doctorate with distinction and despite my excellent student evaluations, which incidentally included one from you, not one member of the faculty was willing to write me a letter of
support or assist me in any way to find a position. Hence I was never able to get a decent teaching position and for the past years have struggled as a vagabond lecturer at a series of unworthy third-rate schools."
Stuart, working hard on developing his empathic sense,
responded, "So you must feel you've served your time and that
society exacted a heavy price."
Philip, surprised, raised his eyes to look at Stuart. He
nodded. "Not as heavy as the one I exacted from myself."
Philip, exhausted, slumped back in his chair. After a few
moments, eyes turned to Pam, who, unappeased, addressed the
whole group: "Don't you get that I'm not talking about a single past criminal act. I'm talking about an ongoing way of being in the world. Weren't you all chilled just now when Philip described his behavior in our act of love as his 'obligations to our social
contract'? And what about his comments that, despite three years with Julius, he felt understood for the 'first time' only when he read Schopenhauer. You all know Julius. Can you believe that after three years Julius did not understand him?"
The group remained silent. After several moments Pam
turned to Philip. "You want to know the reason you felt understood by Schopenhauer and not Julius? I'll tell you why: because
Schopenhauer is dead, dead over one hundred and forty years, and Julius is alive. And you don't know how to relate to the living."
Philip did not look as though he would respond, and
Rebecca rushed in, "Pam, you're being vicious. What will it take to appease you?"
"Philip's not evil, Pam," said Bonnie, "he's broken. Can't
you see that? Don't you know the difference?"
Pam shook her head and said, "I can't go any farther today."
After a palpably uncomfortable silence Tony, who had been
uncharacteristically quiet, intervened. "Philip, I'm not pulling a rescue here, but I've been wondering something. Have you had any follow-up feelings to Julius's telling us a few months ago about his sexual stuff after his wife died?"
Philip seemed grateful for the diversion. "What
feelings should I have?"
"I don't know about the ' should. ' I'm just asking what you did feel. Here's what I'm wondering: when you were first seeing him in therapy, would you have felt Julius understood you more if he revealed that he too had personal experience with sexual pressure?"
Philip nodded. "That's an interesting question. The answer
is, maybe, yes. It might have helped. I have no proof, but
Schopenhauer's writings suggest that he had sexual feelings
similar to mine in intensity and relentlessness. I believe that's why I felt so understood by him.
"But there's something I've omitted in talking about my
work with Julius, and I want to set the record straight. When I told him that his therapy had failed to be of value to me in any way, he confronted me with the same question raised in the group a little while ago: why would I want such an unhelpful therapist for a
supervisor? His question helped me recall a couple of things from our therapy that stuck with me and had, in fact, proved useful."
"Like what?" asked Tony.
"When I described my typical routinized evening of sexual
seduction--flirtation, pickup, dinner, sexual consummation--and asked him whether he was shocked or disgusted, he responded
only that it seemed like an exceptionally boring evening. That response shocked me. It got me realizing how much I had
arbitrarily infused my repetitive patterns with excitement."
"And the other thing that stuck with you?" asked Tony.
"Julius once asked what epitaph I might request for my
tombstone. When I didn't come up with anything, he offered a
suggestion: 'He fucked a lot.' And then he added that the same epitaph could serve for my dog as well."
Some members whistled or smiled. Bonnie said, "That's
mean, Julius."
"No," Philip said, "it wasn't said in a mean way--he meant
to shock me, to wake me up. And it did stick with me, and I think it played a role in my decision to change my life. But I guess I
wanted to forget these incidents. Obviously, I don't like
acknowledging that he's been helpful."
"Do you know why?" asked Tony.
"I've been thinking about it. Perhaps I feel competitive. If he wins, I lose. Perhaps I don't want to acknowledge that his
approach to counseling, so different from mine, works. Perhaps I don't want to get too close to him. Perhaps she," Philip nodded toward Pam, "is right: I can't relate to a living person."
"At least not easily," said Julius. "But you're getting closer."
And so the group continued over the next several weeks: perfect attendance, hard productive work, and, aside from repeated
anxious inquiries into Julius's health and the ongoing tension between Pam and Philip, the group felt trusting, intimate,
optimistic, even serene. No one was prepared for the bombshell about to hit the group.
35
S
e
l
f
-
T
h
e
r
a
p
y
_________________________
Whena man like
me
is
born
there
remains
only one thing
to be desired
from
without--
that throughout
the
whole
of
his life he can
as
much
as
possible
be
himself
and
live
for
his
intellectual
powers.
_________________________
More than anything else, the autobiographical "About Me" is a
dazzling compendium of self-therapy strategies that helped
Schopenhauer stay afloat psychologically. Though some strategies, devised in anxiety storms at 3A.M. and rapidly discarded at dawn, were fleeting and ineffective, others proved to be enduring
bulwarks of support. Of these, the most potent was his unswerving lifelong belief in his genius.
Even in my youth I noticed in myself that, whereas others
strived for external possessions, I did not have to turn to such things because I carried within me a treasure infinitely more
valuable than all external possessions; and the main thing was to enhance the treasure for which mental development and
complete independence are the primary conditions.... Contrary
to nature and the rights of man, I had to withdraw my powers
from the advancement of my own well-being, in order to
devote them to the service of mankind. My intellect belonged
not to me but to the world.
The burden of his genius, he said, made him more anxious
and uneasy than he already was by virtue of his genetic makeup.
For one thing, the sensibility of geniuses causes them to suffer more pain and anxiety. In fact, Schopenhauer persuades himself, there is a direct relationship between anxiety and intelligence.
Hence, not only do geniuses have an obligation to use their gift for mankind, but, because they are meant to devote themselves
entirely to the fulfilling of their mission, they were compelled to forego the many satisfactions (family, friends, home, accumulation of wealth) available to other humans.
Again and again he calmed himself by reciting mantras
based on the fact of his genius: "My life is heroic and not to be measured by the standards of Philistines, shopkeepers or ordinary men.... I must therefore not be depressed when I consider how I lack those things that are part of an individual's regular course of life.... therefore it cannot surprise me if my personal life seems incoherent and without any plan." Schopenhauer's belief in his genius served also to provide him with a perduring sense of life meaning: throughout his life he regarded himself as a missionary of truth to the human race.
Loneliness was the demon that most plagued Schopenhauer,
and he grew adept at constructing defenses against it. Of these, the most valuable was the conviction that he was master of his
destiny--that he chose loneliness; loneliness did not choose him.
When he was younger, he stated, he was inclined to be sociable, but thereafter: "I gradually acquired an eye for loneliness, became systematically unsociable and made up my mind to devote entirely to myself the rest of this fleeting life." "I am not," he reminded himself repeatedly, "in my native place and not among beings who are my equal."
So the defenses against isolation were powerful and deep: he
voluntarily chose isolation, other beings were unworthy of his company, his genius-based mission in life mandated isolation, the life of geniuses must be a "monodrama," and the personal life of a genius must serve one purpose: facilitating the intellectual life (hence, "the smaller the personal life, the safer, and thus the better").
At times Schopenhauer groaned under the burden of his
isolation. "Throughout my life I have felt terribly lonely and have always sighed from the depths of my heart, 'now give me a human being' but, alas in vain. I have remained in solitude but I can honestly and sincerely say it has not been my fault, for I have not shunned or turned away anyone who was a human being."
Besides, he said, he was not really alone because--and here
is another potent self-therapy strategy--he had his own circle of close friends: the great thinkers of the world.
Only one such being was a contemporary, Goethe; most of
the others were from antiquity, especially the Stoics, whom he quoted frequently. Almost every page of "About Me" contains
some aphorism spawned by a great mind supporting his own
convictions. Typical examples:
The best aid for the mind is that which once for all breaks the tormenting bonds that ensnare the heart.--Ovid
Whoever seeks peace and quiet should avoid women, the
permanent source of trouble and dispute.--Petrarch
It is impossible for anyone not to be perfectly happy who
depends entirely upon himself and who possesses in himself all that he calls his.--Cicero
A technique used by some leaders of therapy or personal
growth groups is the "who am I?" exercise; members write seven answers to the question "who am I?" each on a different card, and then arrange the cards in order of importance. Next they are asked to turn over one card at a time, beginning with the most peripheral answer and to meditate upon what it would be like to let go of (that is, disidentify with) each answer until they get to the attributes of their core self.
In an analogous manner, Schopenhauer tried on and
considered his core self.
When, at times, I felt unhappy it was because I took myself to be other than I was and then deplored that other person's
misery and distress. For example, I took myself to be a lecturer who does not become a professor and has no one to hear his
lectures; or to be one about whom this Philistine speaks ill or that scandal monger gossips; or to be the lover who is not
listened to by the girl with whom he is infatuated; or to be the patient who is kept home by illness; or to be other persons
afflicted with similar miseries. I have not been any of these; all this is the stuff from which the coat has been made which I
wore for a short time and which I then discarded in exchange
for another.
But, then, who am I? I am the man who has written The World as Will and Representation which has given a solution to the great problem of existence which perhaps will render
obsolete all previous solutions.... I am that man, and what
could disturb him in the few years in which he has still to draw breath.
A related soothing strategy was his conviction that sooner or
later, p
robably after his death, his work would become known and would drastically alter the course of philosophic inquiry. He first began expressing this opinion early in life, and his belief in ultimate success never wavered. In this he was similar to both Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, two other independent and
unappreciated thinkers who were entirely (and correctly)
convinced that they would have posthumous fame.
He eschewed any supernatural consolations, embracing only
those based on a naturalistic worldview. For example, he believed that pain ensues from the error of assuming that many of life's exigencies are accidental and, hence, avoidable. Far better to realize the truth: that pain and suffering are inevitable, inescapable, and essential to life--"that nothing but the mere form in which it manifests itself depends on chance, and that our present suffering fills a place...which, without it, would be occupied by some other suffering. If such a reflection were to become a living conviction, it might produce a considerable degree of stoical equanimity."
He urged us to live and experience life now rather than live for the "hope" of some future good. Two generations later
Nietzsche would take up this call. He considered hope our greatest scourge and pilloried Plato, Socrates, and Christianity for focusing our attention away from the only life that we have and toward
some future illusory world.
36
_________________________
Whereare there
any
real
monogamists? We
all live for a
time and, most
of us, always,
in
polygamy.
And since every
man needs many
women, there is
nothing fairer
than to make it
incumbent upon
him to provide
for many women.
This
will
reduce woman to
her
true
and
natural
position as a
subordinate
being.
_________________________
Pam opened the next meeting. "I've got something to announce
today."
All heads turned toward her.