The Schopenhauer Cure

orchestrated to validate the effectiveness of drugs and briefer therapies; from the media,

which never tired of ridiculing therapists; from behaviorists; from motivational speakers;

from the hordes of new age healers and cults all competing for the hearts and minds of

the troubled. And, of course, there were doubts from within: the extraordinary molecular

neurobiological discoveries reported with ever–increasing frequency caused even the

most experienced therapists to wonder about the relevance of their work.

Julius was not immune to these attacks and often entertained doubts about the

effectiveness of his therapy and just as often soothed and reassured himself.Of course he

was an effective healer.Of course he offered something valuable to most, perhaps even

all, of his patients.

Yet the imp of doubt continued to made its presence known:Were you really, truly,

helpful to your patients? Maybe you`ve just learned to pick patients who were going to

improve on their own anyway.

No. Wrong! Wasn`t I the one who always took on great challenges?

Huh, you`ve got your limits! When was the last time you really stretched yourself—

took a flagrant borderline into therapy? Or a seriously impaired schizophrenic or a

bipolar patient?

Continuing to thumb through old charts, Julius was surprised to see how much

posttherapy information he had—from occasional follow–up or «tune–up» visits, from

chance encounters with the patient, or from messages delivered by new patients they had

referred to him. But, still, had he made an enduring difference to them? Maybe his results

were evanescent. Maybe many of his successful patients had relapsed and shielded that

information from him out of sheer charity.

He noted his failures, too—folks, he had always told himself, who were not ready

for his advanced brand of deliverance. Wait, he told himself, give yourself a break,

Julius. How do you know they werereally failures?permanent failures? You never saw

them again. We all know there are plenty of late bloomers out there.

His eye fell upon Philip Slate`s thick chart. You want failure? he said to

himself.There was failure. Old–time major–league failure. Philip Slate. More than twenty

years had passed, but his image of Philip Slate was crisp. His light brown hair combed

straight back, his thin graceful nose, those high cheekbones that suggested nobility, and

those crisp green eyes that reminded him of Caribbean waters. He remembered how

much he disliked everything about his sessions with Philip. Except for one thing: the

pleasure of looking at that face.

Philip Slate was so alienated from himself that he never thought to look within,

preferring to skate on the surface of life and devote all his vital energy to fornication.

Thanks to his pretty face, he had no end of volunteers. Julius shook his head as he rifled

through Philip`s chart—three years of sessions, all that relating and support and caring,

all those interpretations without a whisper of progress. Amazing! Perhaps he wasn`t the

therapist he thought he was.

Whoa, don`t jump to conclusions, he told himself. Why would Philip continue for

three years if he had gotten nothing? Why would he continue to spend all that money for

nothing? And God knows Philip hated to spend money. Maybe those sessions had

changed Philip. Maybe hewas a late bloomer—one of those patients who needed time to

digest the nourishment given by the therapist, one of those who stored up some of the

therapist`s good stuff, took it home, like a bone, to gnaw on later, in private. Julius had

known patients so competitive that they hid their improvement just because they didn`t

want to give the therapist the satisfaction (and the power) of having helped them.

Now that Philip Slate entered his mind, Julius could not get him out. He had

burrowed in and taken root. Just like the melanoma. His failure with Philip became a

symbol embodyingall his failures in therapy. There was something peculiar about the

case of Philip Slate. From where had it drawn all that power? Julius opened his chart and

read his first note written twenty–five years before.

PHILIP SLATE—Dec. 11, 1980

26 yr old single white male chemist working for DuPont—develops new pesticides—

strikingly handsome, carelessly dressed but has a regal air, formal, sits stiffly with little

movement, no expression of feelings, serious, absence of any humor, not a smile or grin,

strictly business, no social skills whatsoever. Referred by his internist, Dr. Wood.

CHIEF COMPLAINT: «I am driven against my will by sexual impulses.»

Why now? «Last straw» episode a week ago which he described as though by rote.

I arrived by plane in Chicago for a professional meeting, got off the plane, and

charged to the nearest phone and went down my list of women in Chicago looking for

a sexual liaison that evening. No luck! They were all busy. Of course they were busy:

it was a Friday evening. I knew I was coming to Chicago; I could have phoned them

days, even weeks earlier. Then, after calling the last number in my book, I hung up

the phone and said to myself, «Thank God, now I can read and get a good night`s

sleep, which is what I really wanted to do all along.»

Patient says that phrase, that paradox—«which is what I really wanted to do

all along»—haunted him all week and is the specific impetus for seeking therapy.

«That`s what I want to focus on in therapy,” he says. «Ifthatis what I want—to read

and to get a good night`s sleep—Dr. Hertzfeld, tell me—why can`t I, why don`t I, do

it?»

Slowly more details of his work with Philip Slate coasted into mind. Philip had

intellectually intrigued him. At the time of their first meeting he had been working on a

paper on psychotherapy and the will, and Philip`s question—why can`t I do what I truly

want to do?—was a fascinating beginning for the article. And, most of all, he recalled

Philip`s extraordinary immutability: after three years he seemed entirely untouched and

unchanged—and as sexually driven as ever.

Whatever became of Philip Slate? Not one word from him since he abruptly bailed

out of therapy twenty–two years ago. Again Julius wondered whether, without knowing

it, he had been helpful to Philip. Suddenly, he had to know; it seemed a matter of life and

death. He reached for the phone and dialed 411.

2

_________________________

Ecstasy in the act of

copulation. That is it! That

is the true essence and core

of all things, the goal and

purpose of all existence.

_________________________

«Hello, is this Philip Slate?»

«Yes, Philip Slate, here.»

«Dr. Hertzfeld here. Julius Hertzfeld.»

«Julius Hertzfeld?»

«A voice from your past.»

«The deep past. The Pleistocene past. Julius Hertzfeld. I can`t believe it—it must

be what?...at least twenty years. And why this call?»

«Well, Philip, I`m calling about your bill. I don`t believe you paid in full for our

last session.»

«What? The last session? But I`m sure...”

«Just kidding, Philip. Sorry, some things never change—the old man is still jaunty

and irrepressible. I`ll be serious. Here, in a nutshell, is why I`m calling. I`m having some

health problems, and I`m contemplating retirement. In the course of making this decision

I`ve developed an irresistible urge to meet with some of my ex–patients—just to do some

follow–ups, to satisfy my own curiosity. I`ll explain more later if you wish. Soooo—