The Schopenhauer Cure(91)
Philip nodded but remained silent.
“A second time! I don’t recall another time,” said Pam. “Did it happen when I was away?”
Several heads shook no. No one else remembered a first time, and Pam asked Julius, “Are there blanks that need to filled in here?”
“There’s old history between Philip and me,” said Julius. “A lot of the puzzlement today could be removed by relating this history. But I feel it’s up to you, Philip. When you’re ready.”
“I’m willing for all to be discussed,” said Philip. “You have carte blanche.”
“No, what I mean is, it’s not for me to do that. To paraphrase your words, it would be a richer exercise if you would discuss it yourself. I think it’s your call and your responsibility.?”
Philip tilted his head upward, closed his eyes, and, using the same tone and manner as when reciting a memorized passage, began: “Twnety-five years ago I consulted Julius for what is now termed sexual addiction. I was predatory, I was driven, I was insatiable, I thought of little else. My whole being was caught up in the pursuit of women—new women, always new women, because once I bedded a woman I rapidly lost interest in her. It was as though the epicenter of my existence was that moment of ejaculating inside the woman. And once that happened I had a brief respite from my compulsion, but soon—sometimes only hours later—I felt the call to prowl again. Sometimes I had two or three women in a day. I was desperate. I wanted to get my mind out of the trough, to think about other things, to touch some of the great minds of the past. I was educated in chemistry then, but I yearned for real wisdom. I sought help, the best and most expensive available, and met with Julius weekly, sometimes twice weekly, for three years, without benefit.”
Philip paused. The group stirred. Julius asked, “How is this going for you, Philip? Can you go farther, or is it enough for one day?”
“I’m fine,” replied Philip.
“With your closed eyes it’s hard to read you,” said Bonnie. “I’m wondering if you keep them closed because you fear disapproval.”
“No, I close my eyes to look within and collect my thoughts. And surely I’ve made it clear that only my own approval matters to me.”
Again there settled onto the group that strange otherworldly sense of Philip’s untouchability. Tony tried to dispel it by whispering loudly, “Nice try, Bonnie.”
Without opening his eyes, Philip continued. “Not too long after I gave up therapy with Julius, I inherited a fair sum of money from the maturation of a trust account my father had set up for me. The money enabled me to leave my profession as a chemist and devote myself to reading all of Western philosophy—in part because of my enduring interest in that field, but primarily because I believed that somewhere in the collective wisdom of the world’s great thinkers I would find a cure for my condition. I felt at home in philosophy and soon realized that I had found my true calling. I applied and was accepted in the philosophy doctoral program at Columbia. It was at that time that Pam had the misfortune of crossing my path.”
Philip, eyes still closed, paused and inhaled deeply. All eyes were on him except for furtive glances toward Pam, who stared at the floor.
“As time went by I chose to concentrate my attention on the trinity of truly great philosophers: Plato, Kant, and Schopenhauer. But, in the final analysis, it was only Schopenhauer who offered me help. Not only were his words pure gold for me, but I sensed a strong affinity with his person. As a rational being I cannot accept the idea of reincarnation in its vulgar sense, but if I had lived before it would have been as Arthur Schopenhauer. Simply knowing of his existence has tempered the ache of my isolation.
“After reading and rereading his work for several years, I found that I had overcome my sexual problems. By the time I received my doctorate, my father’s bequest was exhausted and I needed to earn a living. I taught at a few places around the country and a few years ago moved back to San Francisco to accept a position at Coastal University. Eventually I lost interest in teaching because I never found students worthy of me or my subject, and then, about three years ago, it occurred to me that, since philosophy had healed me, I might be able to use philosophy to heal others. I enrolled in and completed a counseling curriculum and then began a small clinical practice. And that brings me to the present.”
“Julius was useless to you,” said Pam, “yet you contacted him again. Why?”
“I didn’t. He contacted me.”
Pam muttered, “Oh, yeah, right out of the blue Julius contacted you?”
“No, no, Pam,” said Bonnie, “that part is true; Julius confirmed it when you were away. I can’t fill you in on it because I’ve never really understood it myself.”
“Right, let me come in here,” said Julius. “I’ll reconstruct it as best I can. The first few days after receiving the bad news from my doctor I was staggered and tried to find a way to come to terms with having a lethal cancer. One evening I got into a very morose mood as I thought about the meaning of my life. I got to thinking about being destined to slip into nothingness and remaining there forever. And that being so, then what difference did anyone or any activity make?
“I can’t remember the whole chain of my morbid thinking, but I knew I had to clutch some kind of meaning or I would drown on dry land, then and there. As I surveyed my life, I realized that I had experienced meaning—and that it always involved stepping outside of myself, helping others to live and to fulfill themselves. More clearly than ever before I realized the centrality of my work as a therapist and then I thought for hours about those I had helped; all my patients, old and new, paraded through my imagination.