The Schopenhauer Cure(106)
How radiant her face! And such astonishing clarity! Of all the hordes, the hundreds, of women whose bodies he had entered and whose faces had long faded, melding into one archetypal visage, how was it possible that Pam’s face persisted in such remarkable detail?
Then, to his amazement, sharper memory snippets of the young Pam slipped into view: her beauty, her giddy excitement as he tied her wrists with his belt, her cascade of orgasms. His own sexual excitement remained as a vague body memory—a wordless, heaving sensation of pelvic thrusting and exultation. He remembered, too, lingering in her arms for much too long. It was for that precise reason he had regarded her as dangerous and had resolved on the spot not to see her again. She represented a threat to his freedom. The quarry he sought was quick sexual release—that was his license to blessed peace and solitude. He never wanted carnality. He wanted freedom; he wanted to escape from the bondage of desire in order to enter, however briefly, the true philosophers’ will-free clearing. Only after sexual release could he think elevated thoughts and join his friends—the great thinkers whose books were personal letters to him.
More fantasies came; his passion enveloped him and, with a great whoosh, sucked him from the philosophers’ distant observing grandstand. He craved; he desired; he wanted. And more than anything, he wanted to hold Pam’s face in his hands. Tight orderly connections between thoughts loosened. He imagined a sea lion surrounded by a harem of cows, then a yelping mongrel flinging himself again and again against a steel link fence separating him from a bitch in heat. He felt himself a brutish, club-wielding caveman, grunting, warning off competitors. He wanted to possess her, lick her, smell her. He thought of Tony’s muscular forearms, of Popeye gulping his spinach and chucking the empty can behind him. He saw Tony mounting her—her legs splayed, her arms encircling him. That pussy should be his, his alone. She had no right to defile it by offering it to Tony. Everything she did with Tony sullied his memory of her, impoverished his experience. He felt sick to his stomach. He was a biped.
Philip turned and walked along the marina, then through Chrissy Field to the bay and along the edge of the Pacific, where the calm surf and the timeless aroma of ocean salt soothed him. He shivered and buttoned his jacket. In the fading light of day, the cold Pacific wind streamed through the Golden Gate and rushed by him, just as the hours of his life would forever rush past without warmth or pleasure. The wind presaged the frost of endless days to come, arctic days of rising in the morning with no hope of home, love, touch, joy. His mansion of pure thought was unheated. How strange that he had never before noticed. He continued walking but with the glimmering knowledge that his house, his whole life, had been built on foundations flimsy and false.
38
* * *
We should treat with indulgence every human folly, failing, and vice, bearing in mind that what we have before us are simply our own failings, follies, and vices.
* * *
In the following meeting Philip shared neither his frightening experiences nor his reasons for abruptly leaving the previous meeting. Though he now participated more actively in the group discussions, he always did so at his own choosing and the members had learned that energy invested in prying Philip open was energy wasted. Hence they shifted their attention to Julius and inquired whether he felt usurped by Philip’s ending the meeting last week.
“Bittersweet,” he replied. “The bitter part is being replaced. Losing my influence and my role is symbolic of all impending endings and renunciations. I had a bad night after the last meeting. Everything feels bad at 3 A.M. I had a rush of sorrow at all the endings ahead of me: the ending of the group, of my therapy with all my other patients, the ending of my last good year. So, that’s the bitter. The sweet is my pride in you guys. And that includes you, Philip. Pride in your growing independence. Therapists are like parents. A good parent enables a child to gain enough autonomy to leave home and function as an adult; in the same way a good therapist’s aim is to enable patients to leave therapy.”
“Lest there be a misunderstanding, I want to clarify the record,” Philip proclaimed. “It was not my intention to usurp you last week. My actions were entirely self-protective: I felt inexpressibly agitated by the discussion. I forced myself to remain till the end of the meeting, and then I had to leave.”
“I understand that, Philip, but my preoccupation with endings is so strong now that I may see portents of endings and replacement in benign situations. I’m also aware that, tucked into your disclaimer, is some caring for me. For that I thank you.”
Philip bowed his head slightly.
Julius continued, “This agitation you describe sounds important. Should we explore it? There are only five meetings left; I urge you to take advantage of this group while there’s still time.”
Though Philip silently shook his head as if to indicate that exploration was not yet possible for him, he was not destined to stay silent permanently. In the following meetings Philip was inexorably drawn in.
Pam opened the next meeting by pertly addressing Gill: “Apology time! I’ve been thinking about you and think I owe you one…no, I know I owe you one.”
“Say more.” Gill was alert and curious.
“A few months ago I blasted you for never being present, for being so absent and impersonal that I could not bear to listen to you. Remember? That was pretty harsh stuff—”