The Schopenhauer Cure(21)
“It seems likely,” Philip continued, “that a philosophical approach may be far preferable for someone like me. The truth is—you and I are fundamentally different. I have never drawn pleasure from the company of others—their drivel, their demands, their ephemeral petty strivings, their pointless lives—are a nuisance and an obstacle to my communion with the handful of great world spirits who have something of significance to say.”
“Then why sign on to be a therapist? Why not remain with the great world spirits? Why busy yourself offering help to these pointless lives?”
“If, like Schopenhauer, I had an inheritance to support myself, I assure you I would not be here today. It’s entirely a matter of economic need. My educational expenses have depleted my bank account, my teaching pays a pittance, the college is near bankruptcy, and I doubt that I will be rehired. I need to see only a few clients a week to meet my expenses: I live frugally, I wish to acquire nothing except the freedom to pursue what is truly important to me: my reading, thinking, meditation, music, chess, and my walks with Rugby, my dog.”
“You have still not answered my question: why come to see me when it is clear I work in quite a different fashion from the way you want to work? And you haven’t responded to my conjecture that there’s something about our past relationship drawing you to me.”
“I didn’t respond because it’s so far off the mark. But since it seems important to you, I’ll continue to ponder your conjecture. Don’t conclude that I’m questioning the presence of basic interpersonal needs. Schopenhauer himself said that bipeds—his term—need to huddle together by the fire for warmth. He cautioned, however, about getting singed by too much huddling. He liked porcupines—they huddled for warmth but used their quills to keep their separateness. He treasured his separateness and depended on nothing outside himself for his happiness. And he wasn’t alone on this; other great men, Montaigne, for example, shared this way of thinking.
“I also fear bipeds,” Philip continued, “and I agree with his observation that a happy man is one who can avoid most of his fellow creatures. And how can you not agree that bipeds create a hell here on Earth? Schopenhauer said, ‘Homo homini lupus’—man is a wolf to man; I’m certain that he was the inspiration for Sartre’s No Exit.”
“All well and good, Philip. But you’re confirming my very point: that you may not be equipped to work as a therapist. Your point of view leaves no room for friendships.”
“Every time I reach out to another, I end up with less of myself. I have not had a friendship in adulthood, nor do I care to form one. You may remember I was a solitary child with a disinterested mother and an unhappy father who eventually took his life. To be frank, I’ve never met anyone who has anything of interest to offer me. And it’s not because I haven’t looked. Every time I’ve tried to befriend someone, I’ve had the same experience as Schopenhauer, who said he only found miserable wretches, men of limited intelligence, bad heart, and mean disposition. I’m referring to living persons—not to the great thinkers of the past.
“You met me, Philip.”
“That was a professional relationship. I refer to social encounters.”
“These attitudes are visible in your behavior. With your contempt and lack of social skills spawned by this contempt, how can you possibly interact with others in a therapeutic manner?”
“We’re not in disagreement there—I agree I need to work on social skills. A little friendliness and warmth, Schopenhauer said, makes it possible to manipulate people just as we need to warm wax if we wish to work it.”
Julius rose, shaking his head. He poured a cup of coffee for himself and paced back and forth. “Working wax is not just a bad metaphor;—it’s about the worst goddamn metaphor for therapy I’ve ever encountered—in fact it is the worst. You sure as hell are not pulling your punches. Nor, incidentally, are you making your friend and therapist, Arthur Schopenhauer, endearing to me.”
Taking his seat again and sipping his coffee, Julius said, “I’m not repeating my offer of coffee because I’m assuming you want nothing to do with anything except the answer to your singular question about supervision. You seem very strongly focused, Philip, so I will be merciful and cut to the chase. Here’s my decision about supervising you…”
Philip, who had been averting his gaze throughout this discussion, looked directly at Julius for the first time.
“You’ve got a fine mind, Philip. You know a great deal. Maybe you’ll find a way to harness your knowledge in the service of therapy. Maybe you’ll end up making real contributions. I hope so. But you’re not ready to be a therapist. And you’re not ready for supervision. Your interpersonal skills, sensitivity, and awareness need work—a lot of work. But I want to be helpful to you. I failed once, and now I’ve got a second chance. Can you think of me as your ally, Philip?”
“Let me answer that question after I hear your proposal, which I assume is imminent.”
“Jesus! All right, here it is. I, Julius Hertzfeld, agree to be Philip Slate’s supervisor if, and only if, he first spends six months as a patient in my psychotherapy group.”
For once, Philip was startled. He had not anticipated Julius’s response. “You’re not serious.”
“Never been more.”