Rebecca was the first to respond, "To be so content, to need so little from others, never to crave the company of others--sounds pretty lonely, Philip."
"On the contrary," said Philip, "in the past, when I craved the company of others, asked for something which they would not, indeed could not, give--
that
was when I knew loneliness. I knew it very well. To need no person is never to be lonely. Blessed isolation is what I seek."
"Yet you're here," said Stuart, "and take it from me--this group is the archenemy of isolation. Why expose yourself to this?"
"Every thinker must support his habit. Either they were fortunate enough to have had a university stipend like Kant or Hegel or independent means like Schopenhauer or a day job like Spinoza, who ground lenses for spectacles to support himself. I have chosen philosophical counseling as my day job, and this group experience is part of my certification experience."
"That means, then," said Stuart, "that you are engaging with us in this group, but your ultimate goal is to help others never to need such engagement."
Philip paused and then nodded.
"Let me be sure I got you right," said Tony. "If Rebecca digs you, comes on to you, turns on her charm, gives you her amazing killer smile, you're saying it has no effect on you? Zero?"
"No, I didn't say 'no effect.' I agree with Schopenhauer when he wrote that beauty is an open letter of recommendation predisposing the heart to favor the person who presents it. I find that an individual of great beauty is wondrous to behold. But I'm also saying that someone else's opinion of me does not, must not, alter my opinion of myself."
"Sounds mechanical. Not quite human," replied Tony.
"What truly felt inhuman was the time when I allowed my estimation of my value to bob up and down like a cork according to the regard flowing from inconsequential others."
Julius stared at Philip's lips. What a marvel they were. How exactly they mirrored Philip's calm composure, how steadfast, how unquavering, as they shaped each passing word into the same perfect roundness of pitch and tone. And it was easy to empathize with Tony's escalating desire to ruffle Philip. But knowing Tony's impulsivity might quickly escalate, Julius decided it was time to steer the discussion into a more benign direction. It was not time to confront Philip; this was only his fourth meeting.
"Philip, earlier in your comments to Bonnie you said that your aim was to be helpful to her. And you've also given counsel to others here--Gill, Rebecca.
Can you say more about why you do that? It seems to me there is something in your desire to counsel that goes beyond a day job. After all, there's no financial incentive in offering your help to others here."
"I try always to keep in mind that we are all sentenced to an existence filled with inescapable misery--an existence which none of us would choose if we knew the facts ahead of time. In that sense we are all, as Schopenhauer put it,
fellow sufferers,
and we stand in need of tolerance and love from our neighbors in life."
"Schopenhauer again! Philip, I hear too damn much about Schopenhauer--
whoever he is--and too damn little about you." Tony spoke calmly, as though imitating Philip's measured tone, yet his breathing was shallow and rapid.
Generally, confrontation came easily to Tony; at the time he began therapy scarcely a week passed without a physical contretemps in a bar, in traffic, at work, or on the basketball court. Though not a large man, he was fearless in confrontation; except for one situation--a clash of ideas with an educated articulate bully, someone exactly like Philip.
Philip gave no sign he intended to respond to Tony. Julius broke the silence. "Tony, you seem deep in thought. What's running through your mind?
"I was thinking about what Bonnie said earlier in the meeting about missing Pam. Me, too. I been missing her today."
Julius was not surprised. Tony had become accustomed to Pam's tutelage and protection. The two of them had had struck up an odd-couple relationship--
the English professor and the tattooed primitive. Using an oblique approach, Julius said, "Tony, I imagine it's not easy for you to say, '
Schopenhauer, whoever that is.
'"
"Well, we're here to tell the truth," Tony responded.
"Right on, Tony," said Gill, "and, I'll fess up too: I don't know who Schopenhauer is."
"All I know," noted Stuart, "is that he's a famous philosopher. German, pessimistic. Was he nineteenth century?"
"Yes, he died in 1860, in Frankfurt," said Philip, "and, as for pessimism, I prefer to think of it as
realism.
And, Tony, it may be true I speak of Schopenhauer overly often, but I have good reason to do so." Tony seemed shocked that Philip had addressed him personally. Even so, Philip still made no eye contact. No longer staring at the ceiling, he looked out the window, as if intrigued by something in the garden.
Philip continued: "First, to know Schopenhauer is to know me. We are inseparable, twin-brained. Secondly, he has been my therapist and has offered me invaluable help. I have internalized him--of course I mean his ideas--as many of you have done with Dr. Hertzfeld. Wait--I mean Julius." Philip smiled faintly as he glanced at Julius--his first moment of levity in the group. "Last, I harbor a hope that some of Schopenhauer's sentiments will be of benefit to you as they have been to me."
Julius, glancing at his watch, broke the silence that had followed Philip's remark. "It's been a rich meeting, the kind of meeting I hate to bring to an end, but time's up today."
"Rich? What am I missing?" muttered Tony, as he stood and started toward the door.
20
Foreshad
owings
of
Pessimis
m
_________________________
The
cheerfulness
and
buoyancy of our youth are
due partly to the fact
that we are climbing the
hill of life and do not
see death that lies at
the foot of the other
side.
_________________________
Early in their training therapists are taught to focus upon patients' responsibility for their life dilemmas. Mature therapists never accept at face value their patients'
accounts of mistreatment by others. Instead, therapists understand that to some extent individuals are cocreators of their social environment and that relationships are always reciprocal. But what about the relationship between young Arthur Schopenhauer and his parents? Surely its nature was primarily determined by Johanna and Heinrich, Arthur's creators and shapers; they were, after all, the adults.
And yet Arthur's contribution cannot be overlooked: there was something primal, inbuilt, tenacious in Arthur's temperament which, even as a child, elicited certain responses from Johanna and from others. Arthur habitually failed to inspire loving, generous, and joyful responses; instead almost everyone responded to him critically and defensively.
Perhaps the template was set during Johanna's tempestuous pregnancy. Or perhaps genetic endowment played the major role in Arthur's development. The Schopenhauer lineage teemed with evidence of psychological disturbance. For many years before he committed suicide, Arthur's father was chronically depressed, anxious, stubborn, distant, and unable to enjoy life. His father's mother was violent, unstable, and eventually required institutionalization. Of his father's three brothers, one was born severely retarded, and another, according to a biographer, died at age thirty-four "half mad through excesses, in a corner with wicked people."
Arthur's personality, set at an early age, endured with remarkable consistency his entire life. The letters from his parents to the adolescent Arthur contain many passages that indicate their growing concern about his disinterest in social amenities: For example, his mother wrote, "...little though I care for stiff etiquette, I like even less a rough, self-pleasing, nature and action.... You have more than a slight inclination that way." His father wrote, "I only wish you had learned to make yourself agreeable to people."
Young Arthur's travel diary reveals the man he would become. There, the teenaged Arthur demonstrates a precocious ability to distance himself and view things from a cosmic perspective. In describing a portrait of a Dutch admiral he says, "Next to the picture were the symbols of his life's story: his sword, the beaker, the chain of honor which he wore, and finally the bullet which made all these useless to him."
As a mature philosopher Schopenhauer took pride in his ability to assume an objective perspective, or, as he put it, "viewing the world through the wrong end of the telescope." The appeal of viewing the world from above is already found in his early comments about mountain climbing. At sixteen he wrote, "I find that a panorama from a high mountain enormously contributes to the broadening of concepts.... all small objects disappear and only what is big retains its shape."
There is a powerful foreshadowing here of the adult Schopenhauer. He would continue to develop the cosmic perspective that allowed him as a mature philosopher to experience the world as if from a great distance--not only physically and conceptually but temporally. At an early age he intuitively apprehended the perspective of Spinoza's "sub species aeteritatis," to see the world and its events from the perspective of eternity. The human condition, Arthur concluded, could be best understood not from being
a part of
but
apart from
it. As an adolescent he wrote presciently of his future lofty isolation.
Philosophy is a high mountain road...an isolated road and becomes even more desolate the higher we ascend. Whoever pursues this path should show no fear but must leave everything behind and confidently make his own way in the wintry snow.... He soon sees the world beneath him; its sandy beaches and morasses vanish from his view, its uneven spots are leveled out, its jarring sounds no longer reach his ear. And its roundness is revealed to him. He himself is always in the pure cool mountain air and beholds the sun when all below is still engulfed in dead of night.
But there is more than a pull toward the heights motivating Schopenhauer; there are pushes from below. Two other traits are also evident in the young Arthur: a deep misanthropy coupled with a relentless pessimism. If there was something about heights, distant vistas, and the cosmic perspective that lured Arthur, then, too, there was much evidence that he was repelled by closeness to others. One day after descending from the crystal-clear sunrise on a mountaintop and reentering the human world in a chalet at the mountain base he reported: "We entered a room of carousing servants.... It was unbearable: their animalistic warmth gave off a glowing heat."
Contemptuous, mocking observations of others fill his travel diaries. Of a Protestant service he wrote: "The strident singing of the multitude made my ears ache, and an individual with bleating mouth wide open repeatedly made me laugh." Of a Jewish service: "Two little boys standing next to me made me lose my countenance because at the wide-mouthed roulade with their heads flung back, they always seemed to be yelling at me." A group of English aristocrats "looked like peasant wenches in disguise." The king of England "is a handsome old man but the queen is ugly without any bearing." The emperor and empress of Austria "both wore exceedingly modest clothes. He is a gaunt man whose markedly stupidly face would lead one to guess a tailor rather than an emperor."
A school chum aware of Arthur's misanthropic trend wrote Arthur in England: "I am sorry that your stay in England has induced you to hate the entire
nation.
"
This mocking, irreverent young lad would develop into the bitter, angry man who habitually referred to all humans as "bipeds," and would agree with Thomas a Kempis, "Every time I went out among men I came back less human."
Did these traits impede Arthur's goal to be the "clear eye of the world?"
The young Arthur foresaw the problem and wrote a memo to his older self: "Be sure your objective judgments are not for the most part concealed subjective ones." Yet, as we shall see, despite his resolve, despite his self-discipline, Arthur was often unable to heed his own youthful, excellent advice.
21
_________________________
He
is a happy man who can
once and for all avoid
having to do with a great
many
of
his
fellow
creatures.
_________________________
At the onset of the following meeting, just as Bonnie was asking Julius whether Pam was back from her trip, Pam opened the door, spread her arms, and loudly called out, "Da Dumm!" Everyone, save Philip, stood and greeted her. In her unique loving fashion she went around the circle, looked into each person's eyes, hugged them, kissed Rebecca and Bonnie, tousled Tony's hair, and, when she got to Julius, held him for a long while and whispered, "Thank you for being so honest on the phone. I'm devastated, so so sorry, so worried about you." Julius looked at Pam. Her familiar, smiling face conveyed courage and radiant energy.
"Welcome back, Pam," he said. "God, it's good to see you here. We missed you. I missed you."
Then, when Pam's glance fell on Philip, darkness descended. Her smile and the cheery crinkles around her eyes vanished. Thinking she was jarred by the presence of a stranger in the group, Julius quickly offered an introduction, "Pam, this is our new member, Philip Slate."
"Oh, it's Slate?" said Pam, pointedly not looking at Philip. "Not Philip Sleaze? Or Slimeball? She glanced at the door. "Julius, I don't know if I can stay in the room with this asshole!"
The stunned group members looked back and forth from the agitated Pam to the entirely silent Philip. Julius stepped in. "Fill us in, Pam. Please sit."
As Tony pulled another chair into the group, Pam said, "Not next to him."