The Schopenhauer Cure

said it was remarkable that, in all our hours together, I never once told you a joke.»

Julius, now in no mood for levity, forced his lips into a grin even though he

recognized Philip`s little bon mot as something he himself had once said to Philip. Julius

imagined Philip as a mechanical doll with a large key jutting from the top of his head.

Time to wind him up again. «And then what happened?»

Gazing at the ceiling, Philip continued. «Then one day I reached a momentous

decision. Since no therapist had helped in any way—and, sorry to say, Dr. Hertzfeld, that

included you—”

«I`m beginning to get that particular point,” Julius interjected, then quickly added,

«No apologies needed. You`re simply answering my questions honestly.»

«Sorry, didn`t mean to dwell on that. To continue, since therapy had not been the

answer, I decided to heal myself—a course of bibliotherapy, assimilating the relevant

thoughts of the wisest men whoever lived. So I began systematically reading the entire

corpus of philosophy starting with the Greek pre–Socratics and working my way up to

Popper, Rawls, and Quine. After a year of study my compulsion was no better, but I

arrived at some important decisions: namely, that I was on the right track and that

philosophy was my home. This was a major step—I remember how much you and I had

talked about my never being at home anywhere in the world.»

Julius nodded. «Yes, I remember that, too.»

«I decided that, as long as I was going to spend years reading philosophy, I might

as well make a profession of it. My money wouldn`t last forever. So I entered the Ph.D.

program in philosophy at Columbia. I did well, wrote a competent dissertation, and five

years later had a doctorate in philosophy. I embarked on a teaching career and then, just a

couple of years ago, became interested in applied or, as I prefer to think of it, ‘clinical

philosophy.` And that brings me up to today.»

«You haven`t finished telling me about being healed.»

«Well, at Columbia, midway through my reading, I developed a relationship with a

therapist, the perfect therapist, the therapist who offered me what no one else had been

able to give.»

«In New York, eh? What was his name? At Columbia? What institute did he

belong to?»

«His name was Arthur...” Philip paused and watched Julius with a trace of a grin

on his lips.

«Arthur?»

«Yes, Arthur Schopenhauer, my therapist.»

«Schopenhauer? You`re putting me on, Philip.»

«I`ve never been more serious.»

«I know little about Schopenhauer: just the clichГ©s about his gloomy pessimism.

I`ve never heard his name mentioned in the context of therapy. How was he able to help?

What—?»

«I hate to cut you off, Dr. Hertzfeld, but I have a client coming and I still refuse to

be late—that hasn`t changed. Please give me your card. Some other time I`ll tell you

more about him. He was the therapist meant for me. I don`t exaggerate when I say I owe

my life to the genius of Arthur Schopenhauer.»

4

1787—The

Genius: Stormy

Beginning

and False Start

_________________________

Talentis like a marksman who

hits a target which others

cannot reach; genius is like a

marksman who hits a target

which others cannot see.

_________________________

Stormy Beginning—The genius was only four inches long when the storms began. In

September of 1787 his enveloping amniotic sea roiled, tossed him to and fro, and

threatened his fragile attachment to the uterine shore. The sea waters reeked of anger and

fear. The sour chemicals of nostalgia and despair enveloped him. Gone forever were

sweet balmy bobbing days. With nowhere to turn and no hope of comfort, his tiny neural

synapses flared and fired in all directions.

What is young–learned is best–learned. Arthur Schopenhauer never forgot his early

lessons.

False Start (or How Arthur Schopenhauer almost became an Englishman)—Arthurrr.

Arthurrr, Arthurrrr. Heinrich Florio Schopenhauer scratched each syllable with his

tongue. Arthur—a good name, an excellent name for the future head of the great

Schopenhauer mercantile house.

It was 1787, and his young wife, Johanna, was two months pregnant when

Heinrich Schopenhauer made a decision: if he had a son, he would name him Arthur. An

honorable man, Heinrich allowed nothing to take precedence over duty. Just as his

ancestors had passed the stewardship of the great Schopenhauer mercantile house to him,

he would pass it to his son. These were perilous times, but Heinrich was confident that

his yet unborn son would guide the firm into the nineteenth century. Arthur was the

perfect name for the position. It was a name spelled the same in all major European

languages, a name which would slip gracefully through all national borders. But, most

important of all, it was an English name!

For centuries Heinrich`s ancestors had guided the Schopenhauer business with

great diligence and success. Heinrich`s grandfather once hosted Catherine the Great of

Russia and, to ensure her comfort, ordered brandy to be poured over the floors of the

guest quarters and then set afire to leave the rooms dry and aromatic. Heinrich`s father

had been visited by Frederick, the king of Prussia, who spent hours attempting,

unsuccessfully, to persuade him to shift the company from Danzig to Prussia. And now

the stewardship of the great merchant house had passed to Heinrich, who was convinced

that a Schopenhauer bearing the name of Arthur would lead the firm into a brilliant

future.

The Schopenhauer mercantile house, dealing in the trade of grains, timber, and

coffee, had long been one of the leading firms of Danzig, that venerable Hanseatic city

which had long dominated the Baltic trade. But bad times had come for the grand free

city. With Prussia menacing in the west and Russia in the east, and with a weakened

Poland no longer able to continue guaranteeing Danzig`s sovereignty, Heinrich

Schopenhauer had no doubt that Danzig`s days of freedom and trading stability were

coming to an end. All of Europe was awash in political and financial turmoil—save

England. England was the rock. England was the future. The Schopenhauer firm and

family would find safe haven in England. No, more than safe haven, it would prosper if

its future head should be born an Englishman and bear an English name. Herr Arthurrr

Schopenhauer, no—Mister Arthurrr Schopenhauer—an English subject heading the firm:

that was the ticket to the future.

So, paying no heed to the protests of his teenaged pregnant wife, who pleaded to be

in her mother`s calming presence for the birth of her first child, he set off, wife in tow,

for the long trip to England. The young Johanna was aghast but had to submit to the

unbending will of her husband. Once settled in London, however, Johanna`s ebullient

spirit returned and her charm soon captivated London society. She wrote in her travel

journal that her new English loving friends offered comforting reassurance and that

before long she was the center of much attention.

Too much attention and too much love for the dour Heinrich, apparently, whose

anxious jealousy shortly escalated into panic. Unable to catch his breath and feeling as

though the tension in his chest would split him asunder, he had to do something. And so,

reversing his course, he abruptly left London, carting his protesting wife, now almost six