Contents
1Julius knew the life–and–death homilies as well as…
2«Hello, is this Philip Slate?»
3Union Street was sunny and festive. The clatter of silverware…
41787—The Genius: Stormy Beginning and False Start
5Leaving Philip`s office, Julius felt stunned. He gripped the banister…
6Mom and Pop Schopenhauer—Zu Hause
7At five minutes to seven Julius knocked out the ashes…
8Halcyon Days of Early Childhood
9Julius`s spacious Pacific Heights home was far grander than any…
10The Happiest Years of Arthur`s life
11Philip`s First Meeting
121799—Arthur Learns about Choice and Other Worldly Horrors
13Jerking his head to dislodge the annoying couplet from his…
141807—How Arthur Schopenhauer Almost Became a Merchant
15Pam in India
16Schopenhauer`s Main Woman
17At the start of the next meeting all eyes were…
18Pam in India (2)
19Bonnie opened the next meeting with an apology. «Sorry to…
20Foreshadowings of Pessimism
21At the onset of the following meeting, just as Bonnie…
22Women, Passion, Sex
23Bonnie`s concern about the group proved unfounded: at the next…
24Philip walked for hours after the meeting, past the Palace…
25Porcupines, Genius, and the Misanthropist`s Guide to Human Relationships
26At the next meeting Gill plunked himself down, his huge…
27After the session the group gathered for about forty–fiveeir…
28Pessimism as a Way of Life
29«I`d like to continue where we left off,” said Julius,…
30When the group left, Julius watched them walk down his…
31How Arthur Lived
32Julius entered the group room the following week to an…
33Suffering, Rage, Perseverance
34As time raced by, Julius looked forward with increasing anticipation…
35Self–Therapy
36Pam opened the next meeting. «I`ve got something to announce…
37Leaving the group room did not clear the muck from…
38In the following meeting Philip shared neither his frightening experiences…
39Fame, at Last
40Members filed in for the penultimate meeting with contrasting feelings:…
41Death Comes to Arthur Schopenhauer
42Three Years Later
NOTES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY IRVIN D. YALOM
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
1
_________________________
Every breath we draw wards off
the death that constantly
impinges on us.... Ultimately
death must triumph, for by
birth it has already become
our lot and it plays with its
prey only for a short while
before swallowing it up.
However, we continue our life
with great interest and much
solicitude as long as
possible, just as we blow out
a soap–bubble as long and as
large as possible, although
with the perfect certainty
that it will burst.
_________________________
Julius knew the life–and–death homilies as well as anyone. He agreed with the
Stoics, who said, «As soon as we are born we begin to die,” and with Epicurus, who
reasoned, «Where I am, death is not and where death is, I am not. Hence why fear
death?» As a physician and a psychiatrist, he had murmured these very consolations
into the ears of the dying.
Though he believed these somber reflections to be useful to his patients, he never
considered that they might have anything to do with him. That is, until a terrible moment
four weeks earlier which forever changed his life.
The moment occurred during his annual routine physical examination. His
internist, Herb Katz—an old friend and medical school classmate—had just completed
his examination and, as always, told Julius to dress and come to his office for a
debriefing.
Herb sat at his desk, rifling through Julius`s chart. «On the whole, you look pretty
good for an ugly sixty–five–year–old man. Prostate is getting a little swollen, but so is
mine. Blood chemistries, cholesterol, and lipid levels are well–behaved—the meds and
your diet are doing their job. Here`s the prescription for your Lipitor, which, along with
your jogging, has lowered your cholesterol enough. So you can give yourself a break: eat
an egg once in a while. I eat two for breakfast every Sunday. And here`s the prescription
for your synthyroid. I`m raising the dose a bit. Your thyroid gland is slowly closing
down—the good thyroid cells are dying and being replaced by fibrotic material. Perfectly
benign condition, as you know. Happens to us all; I`m on thyroid meds myself.
«Yes, Julius, no part of us escapes the destiny of aging. Along with your thyroid,
your knee cartilage is wearing out, your hair follicles are dying, and your upper lumbar
disks are not what they used to be. What`s more, your skin integrity is obviously
deteriorating: your epithelial cells are just plain wearing out—look at all those senile
keratoses on your cheeks, those brown flat lesions.» He held up a small mirror for Julius
to inspect himself. «Must be a dozen more on you since I last saw you. How much time
you spending in the sun? Are you wearing a broad–brimmed hat like I suggested? I want
you to see a dermatologist about them. Bob King`s good. He`s just in the next building.
Here`s his number. Know him?»
Julius nodded.
«He can burn off the unseemly ones with a drop of liquid nitrogen. I had him
remove several of mine last month. No big deal—takes five, ten, minutes. A lot of
internists are doing it themselves now. Also there`s one I want him to look at on your
back: you can`t see it; it`s just under the lateral part of your right scapula. It looks
different from the others—pigmented unevenly and the borders aren`t sharp. Probably
nothing, but let`s have him check it. Okay, buddy?»
«Probably nothing, but let`s have him check it.» Julius heard the strain and forced
casualness in Herb`s voice. But, let there be no mistake, the phrase «pigmented
differently and borders aren`t sharp,” spoken by one doc to another, was a cause for
alarm. It was code for potential melanoma, and now, in retrospect, Julius identified that
phrase, that singular moment, as the point when carefree life ended and death, his
heretofore invisible enemy, materialized in all its awful reality. Death had come to stay, it
never again left his side, and all the horrors that followed were predictable postscripts.
Bob King had been a patient of Julius`s years ago, as had a significant number of
San Francisco physicians. Julius had reigned over the psychiatric community for thirty
years. In his position as professor of psychiatry at the University of California he had
trained scores of students and, five years before, had been president of the American
Psychiatric Association.
His reputation? The no–bullshit doctor`s doctor. A therapist of last resort, a canny
wizard willing to do anything he had to do to help his patient. And that was the reason
why, ten years earlier, Bob King had consulted Julius for treatment of his long–standing
addiction to Vicodan (the physician–addict`s drug of choice because it is so easily
accessible). At that time King was in serious trouble. His Vicodan needs had dramatically
increased: his marriage was in jeopardy, his practice was suffering, and he had to drug
himself to sleep every night.
Bob tried to enter therapy, but all doors were closed for him. Every therapist he
consulted insisted that he enter an impaired physician recovery program, a plan which
Bob resisted because he was loath to compromise his privacy by attending therapy groups
with other physician–addicts. The therapists wouldn`t budge. If they treated a practicing
addicted physician without using the official recovery program, they would place