had led so long ago. How often had those members described a
golden period once they overcame the panic of realizing that they
were truly going to die. Some said living with cancer had made
them wiser, more self–realized, while others had reordered their
priorities in life, grown stronger, learned to say no to activities they
no longer valued and yes to things that really mattered—such as
loving their family and friends, observing the beauty about them,
savoring the changing seasons. But what a pity, so many had
lamented, that it was only after their bodies were riddled with
cancer that they had learned how to live.
These changes were so dramatic—indeed one patient had
proclaimed, «Cancer cures psychoneurosis»—that on a couple of
occasions Julius impishly described only the psychological
changes to a class of students and then asked them to guess what
kind of therapy was involved. How shocked students were to learn
it was not therapy or medication but a confrontation with death that
had made the difference. He owed a lot to those patients. What a
model they were for him in his time of need. What a pity he
couldn`t tell them. Live right, he reminded himself, and have faith
that good things will flow from you even if you never learn of
them.
And how are you doing with your cancer? he asked himself.
I know a lot about the panic phase which, thank God, I`m now
coming out of even though there are still those 3A.M. times when
panic grips with a nameless terror that yields to no reasoning or
rhetoric—it yields to nothing except Valium, the light of breaking
dawn, or a soothing hot–tub soak.
But have I changed or grown wiser? he wondered. Had my
golden period? Maybe I`m closer to my feelings—maybe that`s
growth. I think, no,I know I`ve become a better therapist—grown
more sensitive ears. Yes, definitely I`m a different therapist.
Before my melanoma I would never have said that I was in love
with the group. I would never have dreamed of revealing such
intimate details of my life—Miriam`s death, my sexual
opportunism. And my irresistible compulsion to confess to the
group today—Julius shook his head in amazement—
that`ssomething to wonder about, he thought. I feel a push to go
against the grain, against my training, my own teaching.
One thing for sure, they didnot want to hear me. Talk about
resistance! They wanted no part of my blemishes or my darkness.
But, once I put it out, some interesting stuff emerged. Tony was
something else! Acted like a skilled therapist—inquiring whether I
was satisfied with the group`s response, trying to normalize my
behavior, pressing about «why now.» Terrific stuff. I could almost
imagine him leading the group after I`m gone—that would be
something—a college drop–out therapist with jail time in his past.
And others—Gill, Stuart, Pam—stepped up, took care of me, and
kept the group focused. Jung had other things in mind when he
said that only the wounded healer can truly heal, but maybe honing
the patients` therapeutic skills is a good enough justification for
therapists to reveal their wounds.
Julius moseyed down the hall to his office and continued
thinking about the meeting. And Gill—did he show up today!
Calling Pam «the chief justice» was terrific—and accurate. I have
to help Pam integrate that feedback. Here`s a case when Gill`s
vision is sharper than mine. For a long time I`ve liked Pam so
much that I overlooked her pathology—maybe that`s why I
couldn`t help her with her obsession about John.
Julius turned on his computer and opened a file titled, «Short
Story Plots»—a file which contained the great unfulfilled project in
his life: to be a real writer. He was a good, contributing
professional writer (he had published two books and a hundred
articles in the psychiatric literature), but Julius yearned to write
literature and for decades had collected plots for short stories from
his imagination and his practice. Though he had started several, he
never found the time, nor the courage, to finish and submit a story
for publication.
Scrolling down the lists of plots he clicked on «Victims
confront their enemy» and read two of his ideas. The first
confrontation took place on a posh ship cruising off the Turkish
coast. A psychiatrist enters the ship`s casino and there across the
smoke–filled room sees an ex–patient, a con man who had once
swindled him out of seventy–five thousand dollars. The second
confrontation plot involved a female attorney who was assigned a
pro bono case to defend an accused rapist. On her first jail
interview with him she suspects he is the man who raped her ten
years before.
He made a new entry: «In a therapy group a woman
encounters a man who, many years before, had been her teacher
and sexually exploited her.» Not bad. Great potential for literature,
Julius thought, though he knew it would never be written. There
were ethical issues: he`d need permission from Pam and Philip.
And he`d need, also, the passage of ten years, which he didn`t
have. But potential, too, for good therapy, thought Julius. He was
certain that something positive could come of this—if only he
could keep them both in the group and could bear the pain of
opening up old wounds.
Julius picked up Philip`s translation of the tale of the ship`s
passengers. He reread it several times, trying to understand its
meaning or relevance. But still he ended up shaking his head.
Philip offered it as comfort. But where was the comfort?
31
How Arthur Lived
_________________________
Even when there
is no
particular
provocation, I
always have an
anxious concern
that causes me
to see and look
for dangers
when none
exist; for me
it magnifies to
infinity the
tiniest
vexation and
makes
association
with people
most difficult.
_________________________
After obtaining his doctorate, Arthur lived in Berlin, briefly in
Dresden, Munich, and Mannheim, and then, fleeing a cholera
epidemic, settled, for the last thirty years of his life, in Frankfurt,
which he never left aside from one–day excursions. He had no paid
employment, lived in rented rooms, never had a home, hearth,
wife, family, intimate friendships. He had no social circle, no close
acquaintances, and no sense of community—in fact he was often
the subject of local ridicule. Until the very last few years of his life
he had no audience, readership, or income from his writings. Since
he had so few relationships, his meager correspondence consisted
primarily of business matters.
Despite his lack of friends, we nonetheless know more about
his personal life than that of most philosophers because he was
astonishingly personal in his philosophical writings. For example,
in the opening paragraphs of the introduction to his major
work,The World as Will and Representation, he strikes an
unusually personal note for a philosophic treatise. His pure and
clear prose makes it immediately evident that he desires to
communicate personally with the reader. First he instructs the
reader how to read his book, starting with a plea to read the book
twice—and to do so with much patience. Next he urges the reader
to first read his previous book,On the Fourfold Root of Sufficient