The Schopenhauer Cure(12)
This, then, was the stormy setting of the genius’s gestation: a loveless marriage, a frightened, protesting mother, an anxious, jealous father, and two arduous trips across a wintry Europe.
5
* * *
A happy 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 had ever 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 lady was 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 the Journal of the American Psychiatric Association on “The Psychiatrist Confronting Mortality.” Or maybe something commercial for the Sunday Times Magazine. He could do it. Or why not a book? Something like Autobiography 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.”