The Schopenhauer Cure

by Irvin D. Yalom

  wrote better than Nietzsche."

  "Philip, I want to respond to your comment about

  our basic orientations," said Julius. "I don't believe we're

  as far apart as you think. I don't disagree with much that

  you and Schopenhauer have said about the tragedy of the

  human condition. Where you go east and I go west is when

  we turn to the question of what to do about it. How shall we live? How to face our mortality? How to live with the

  knowledge that we are simply life-forms, thrown into an

  indifferent universe, with no preordained purpose?

  "As you know," Julius continued, "though I'm more

  interested in philosophy than most therapists, I'm no

  expert. Yet, I'm aware of other bold thinkers who have not

  flinched from these raw facts of life and who have arrived

  at entirely different solutions than Schopenhauer. I'm

  thinking particularly of Camus, Sartre, and Nietzsche, who

  all advocate life engagement rather than Schopenhauer's

  pessimistic resignation. The one I know best is Nietzsche.

  You know, when I first received my diagnosis and was in a

  state of panic, I opened Thus Spoke Zarathustra and was both calmed and inspired--especially by his life—

  celebratory comment that we should live life in such a

  manner that we'd say yes if we were offered the

  opportunity to live our life again and again in precisely the

  same manner."

  "How did that relieve you?" asked Philip.

  "I looked at my life and felt that I had lived it right--

  no regrets from inside though, of course, I hated the outside events that took my wife from me. It helped me decide how

  I should live my remaining days: I should continue doing

  exactly what had always offered me satisfaction and

  meaning."

  "I didn't know that about you and Nietzsche, Julius,"

  said Pam. "It makes me feel even closer to you

  because Zarathustra, melodramatic as it is, remains one of my absolutely favorite books. And I'll tell you my favorite

  quote from it. It's when Zarathustra says, ' Was that life?

  Well, then, once again! ' I love people who embrace life and get turned off by those who shrink away from it--I'm

  thinking of Vijay in India. Next ad I run in a personal

  column maybe I'll post that Nietzsche quote and the

  Schopenhauer tombstone quote side-by-side and ask

  respondents to choose between them. That would winnow

  out the nay-sayers.

  "I have another thought I want to share." Pam turned

  to face Philip. "I guess it's obvious that after the last

  meeting I thought about you a lot. I'm teaching a course on

  biography, and in my reading last week I ran across an

  amazing passage in Erik Erikson's biography of Martin

  Luther. It goes something like this: 'Luther elevated his own neurosis to that of a universal patient-hood and then tried to solve for the world what he could not solve for himself.' I believe that Schopenhauer, like Luther, seriously fell into

  this error and that you've followed his lead."

  "Perhaps," responded Philip in a conciliatory

  fashion, "neurosis is a social construct, and we may need a

  different kind of therapy and a different kind of philosophy

  for different temperaments--one approach for those who

  are replenished by closeness to others and another approach

  for those who choose the life of the mind. Consider, for

  example, the large numbers who are drawn to Buddhist

  meditation retreats."

  "That remind me of something I've been meaning to

  say to you, Philip," said Bonnie. "I think your view of

  Buddhism misses something. I've attended Buddhist

  retreats where the focus has been directed outwards--on

  loving kindness and connectivity--not on solitude. A good

  Buddhist can be active, in the world, even politically

  active--all in the service of loving others."

  "So it's becoming clearer," said Julius, "that your

  selectivity error involves human relationships. To give

  another example: you've cited the views about death or

  solitude of several philosophers but never speak of what

  these same philosophers--and I'm thinking of the Greek

  philosophers--have said about the joys of philia, of

  friendship. I remember one of my own supervisors quoting

  me a passage from Epicurus saying that friendship was the

  most important ingredient for a happy life and that eating

  without a close friend was living the life of a lion or a wolf.

  And Aristotle's definition of a friend--one who promotes

  the better and the sounder in the other--comes close to my

  idea of the ideal therapist."

  "Philip," Julius asked, "how is this all feeling today?

  Are we laying too much on you at once?"

  "I'm tempted to defend myself by pointing out that

  not one of the great philosophers ever married, except

  Montaigne, who remained so disinterested in his family

  that he was unsure how many children he had. But, with

  only one remaining meeting, what's the point? It's hard to

  listen constructively when my entire course, everything I

  plan to do as a counselor, is under attack."

  "Speaking for myself, that's not true. There's a great

  deal you can contribute, much that you have contributed to the members here. Right?" Julius scanned the group.

  After lots of strenuous head-nodding affirmation for

  Philip, Julius continued: "But, if you're to be a counselor,

  you must enter the social world. I want to remind you that many, I would bet most, of those who will consult you in your practice will need help in their interpersonal

  relationships, and if you want to support yourself as a

  therapist, you must become an expert in these matters--

  there's no other way. Just take a look around the group:

  everyone here entered because of conflicted relationships.

  Pam came in because of problems with the men in her life,

  Rebecca because of the way her looks influenced her

  relations with others, Tony because of a mutually

  destructive relationship with Lizzy and his frequent fights

  with other men, and so on for everyone."

  Julius hesitated, then decided to include all the

  members. "Gill entered because of marital conflict. Stuart

  because his wife was threatening to leave him, Bonnie

  because of loneliness and problems with her daughter and

  ex-husband. You see what I mean, relationships cannot be

  ignored. And, don't forget, that's the very reason I insisted

  you enter the group before offering you supervision."

  "Perhaps there's no hope for me. My slate of

  relationships, past and present, is blank. Not with family,

  not with friends, not with lovers. I treasure my solitude, but the extent of it would, I think, be shocking to you."

  "A couple times after group," said Tony, "I've asked

  if you wanted to have a bite together. You always refused,

  and I figured it was because you had other plans."

  "I haven't had a meal with anyone for twelve years.

  Maybe an occasional rushed sandwich lunch, but not a real

  meal. You're right, Julius, I guess Epicurus would say I

  live the life of a wolf. A few weeks ago after that meeting

  when I got so upset, one of the th
oughts that circled in my

  mind was that the mansion of thought I had built for my life

  was unheated. The group is warm. This room is warm but

  my living places are arctic cold. And as for love, it's

  absolutely alien to me."

  "All those women, hundreds of them, you told us,"

  said Tony, "there must have been some love going around.

  You must have felt it. Some of them must have loved you."

  "That was long ago. If any had love for me, I made

  sure to avoid them. And even if they felt love, it was not

  love, for me, the real me--it was love for my act, my

  technique."

  "What's the real you?" asked Julius.

  Philip's voice grew deadly serious. "Remember what

  I did for a job when we first met? I was an exterminator--a

  clever chemist who invented ways to kill insects, or to

  render them infertile, by using their own hormones. How's

  that for irony? The killer with the hormone gun."

  "So the real you is?" Julius persisted.

  Philip looked directly into Julius's eyes: "A monster.

  A predator. Alone. An insect killer." His eyes filled with

  tears. "Full of blind rage. An untouchable. No one who has

  known me has loved me. Ever. No one could love me."

  Suddenly, Pam rose and walked toward Philip. She

  signaled Tony to change seats with her and, sitting down

  next to Philip, took his hand in hers, and said in a soft

  voice, "I could have loved you, Philip. You were the most beautiful, the most magnificent man I had ever seen. I

  called and wrote you for weeks after you refused to see me

  again. I could have loved you, but you polluted--"

  "Shhh." Julius reached over and touched Pam on the

  shoulder to silence her. "No, Pam, don't go there. Stay with

  the first part, say it again."

  "I could have loved you."

  "And you were the..." prompted Julius.

  "And you were the most beautiful man I had ever

  seen."

  "Again," whispered Julius.

  Still holding Philip's hand and seeing his tears flow

  freely, Pam repeated, "I could have loved you, Philip. You

  were the most beautiful man..."

  At this Philip, with his hands to his face, rose and

  bolted from the room.

  Tony immediately headed to the door. "That's my

  cue."

  Julius, grunting as he too rose, stopped Tony. "No,

  Tony, this one's on me." He strode out and saw Philip at

  the end of the hall facing the wall, head resting on his

  forearm, sobbing. He put his arm around Philip's shoulder

  and said, "It's good to let it all out, but we must go back."

  Philip, sobbing more loudly and heaving as he tried

  to catch his breath, shook his head vigorously.

  "You must go back, my boy. This is what you came

  for, this very moment, and you mustn't squander it. You've

  worked well today--exactly the way you have to work to

  become a therapist. Only a couple of minutes left in the

  meeting. Just come back with me and sit in the room with

  the others. I'll watch out for you."

  Philip reached around and briefly, just for a moment,

  put his hand atop Julius's hand, then raised himself erect

  and walked alongside Julius back to the group. As Philip

  sat down, Pam touched his arm to comfort him, and Gill,

  sitting on the other side, clasped his shoulder.

  "How are you doing, Julius?" asked Bonnie. "You

  look tired."

  "I'm feeling wonderful in my head, I'm so swept

  away, so admiring of the work this group has done--I'm so

  glad to have been a part of this. Physically, yes, I have to

  admit I am ailing, and weary. But I have more than enough

  juice left for our last meeting next week."

  "Julius," said Bonnie, "okay to bring a ceremonial

  cake for our last meeting?"

  "Absolutely, bring any kind of carrot cake you

  wish."

  But there was to be no formal farewell meeting. The

  following day Julius was stricken by searing headaches.

  Within a few hours he passed into a coma and died three

  days later. At their usual Monday-afternoon time the group

  gathered at the coffee shop and shared the ceremonial

  carrot cake in silent grief.

  41

  D

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  C

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  e

  s

  t

  o

  A

  r

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  h

  u

  r

  S

  c

  h

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  p

  e

  n

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  a

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  r

  _________________________

  Ican bear

  the

  thought

  that in a

  short time

  worms will

  eat

  away

  my

  body

  but

  the

  idea

  of

  philosophy

  professors

  nibbling

  at

  my

  philosophy

  makes

  me

  shudder.

  _________________________

  Schopenhauer faced death as he faced everything

  throughout his life--with extreme lucidity. Never flinching

  when staring directly at death, never succumbing to the

  emollient of supernatural belief, he remained committed to

  reason to the very end of his life. It is through reason, he

  said, that we first discover our death: we observe the death

  of others and, by analogy, realize that death must come to

  us. And it is through reason that we reach the self-evident

  conclusion that death is the cessation of consciousness and

  the irreversible annihilation of the self.

  There are two ways to confront death, he said: the

  way of reason or the way of illusion and religion with its

  hope of persistence of consciousness and cozy afterlife.

  Hence, the fact and the fear of death is the progenitor of

  deep thought and the mother of both philosophy and

  religion.

  Throughout his life Schopenhauer struggled with the

  omnipresence of death. In his first book, written in his

  twenties, he says: "The life of our bodies is only a

  constantly prevented dying, an ever deferred death....

  Every breath we draw wards off the death that constantly

  impinges on us, in this way we struggle with it every

  second."

  How did he depict death? Metaphors of death—

  confrontation abound in his work; we are sheep cavorting

  in the pasture, and death is a butcher who capriciously

  selects one of us and then another for slaughter. Or we are

  like young children in a theater eager for the show to begin

  and, fortunately, do not know what is going to happen to

  us. Or we are sailors, energetically navigating our ships to

  avoid rocks and whirlpools, all the while heading

  unerringly to the great final catastrophic shipwreck.

  His descriptions of the life
cycle always portray an

  inexorably despairing voyage.

  What a difference there is between our beginning and

  our end! The former in the frenzy of desire and the

  ecstasy of sensual pleasure; the latter in the destruction

  of all the organs and the musty odor of corpses. The

  path from birth to death is always downhill as regards

  well-being and the enjoyment of life; blissfully

  dreaming childhood, lighthearted youth, toilsome

  manhood, frail and often pitiable old age, the torture of

  the last illness, and finally the agony of death. Does it

  not look exactly like existence were a false step whose

  consequences gradually become more and more

  obvious?

  Did he fear his own death? In his later years he

  expressed a great calmness about dying. Whence his

  tranquillity? If the fear of death is ubiquitous, if it haunts us all our life, if death is so fearsome that vast numbers of

  religions have emerged to contain it, how did the isolated

  and secular Schopenhauer quell its terror for himself?

  His methods were based on intellectual analysis of

  the sources of death-anxiety. Do we dread death because it

  is alien and unfamiliar? If so, he insists we are mistaken

  because death is far more familiar than we generally think.

  Not only have we a taste of death daily in our sleep or in

  states of unconsciousness, but we have all passed through

  an eternity of nonbeing before we existed.

  Do we dread death because it is evil? (Consider the

  gruesome iconography commonly depicting death.) Here

  too he insists we are mistaken: "It is absurd to consider

  nonexistence as an evil: for every evil, like every good,

  presupposes existence and consciousness.... to have lost

  what cannot be missed is obviously no evil." And he asks

  us to keep in mind that life is suffering, that it is an evil in itself. That being so, how can losing an evil be an evil?

  Death, he says, should be considered a blessing, a release

  from the inexorable anguish of biped existence. "We

  should welcome it as a desirable and happy event instead

  of, as is usually the case, with fear and trembling." Life

  should be reviled for interrupting our blissful nonexistence,

  and, in this context, he makes his controversial claim: "If

  we knocked on the graves and asked the dead if they would