available, and met with Julius weekly, sometimes twice weekly, for three years, without benefit."
Philip paused. The group stirred. Julius asked, "How is this
going for you, Philip? Can you go farther, or is it enough for one day?"
"I'm fine," replied Philip.
"With your closed eyes it's hard to read you," said Bonnie.
"I'm wondering if you keep them closed because you fear
disapproval."
"No, I close my eyes to look within and collect my thoughts.
And surely I've made it clear that only my own approval matters to me."
Again there settled onto the group that strange otherworldly
sense of Philip's untouchability. Tony tried to dispel it by
whispering loudly, "Nice try, Bonnie."
Without opening his eyes, Philip continued. "Not too long
after I gave up therapy with Julius, I inherited a fair sum of money from the maturation of a trust account my father had set up for me.
The money enabled me to leave my profession as a chemist and
devote myself to reading all of Western philosophy--in part
because of my enduring interest in that field, but primarily because I believed that somewhere in the collective wisdom of the world's great thinkers I would find a cure for my condition. I felt at home in philosophy and soon realized that I had found my true calling. I applied and was accepted in the philosophy doctoral program at Columbia. It was at that time that Pam had the misfortune of
crossing my path."
Philip, eyes still closed, paused and inhaled deeply. All eyes were on him except for furtive glances toward Pam, who stared at the floor.
"As time went by I chose to concentrate my attention on the
trinity of truly great philosophers: Plato, Kant, and Schopenhauer.
But, in the final analysis, it was only Schopenhauer who offered me help. Not only were his words pure gold for me, but I sensed a strong affinity with his person. As a rational being I cannot accept the idea of reincarnation in its vulgar sense, but if I had lived before it would have been as Arthur Schopenhauer. Simply knowing of
his existence has tempered the ache of my isolation.
"After reading and rereading his work for several years, I
found that I had overcome my sexual problems. By the time I
received my doctorate, my father's bequest was exhausted and I needed to earn a living. I taught at a few places around the country and a few years ago moved back to San Francisco to accept a
position at Coastal University. Eventually I lost interest in teaching because I never found students worthy of me or my subject, and then, about three years ago, it occurred to me that, since
philosophy had healed me, I might be able to use philosophy to heal others. I enrolled in and completed a counseling curriculum and then began a small clinical practice. And that brings me to the present."
"Julius was useless to you," said Pam, "yet you contacted
him again. Why?"
"I didn't. He contacted me."
Pam muttered, "Oh, yeah, right out of the blue Julius
contacted you ?"
"No, no, Pam," said Bonnie, "that part is true; Julius
confirmed it when you were away. I can't fill you in on it because I've never really understood it myself."
"Right, let me come in here," said Julius. "I'll reconstruct it as best I can. The first few days after receiving the bad news from my doctor I was staggered and tried to find a way to come to terms with having a lethal cancer. One evening I got into a very morose mood as I thought about the meaning of my life. I got to thinking about being destined to slip into nothingness and remaining there forever. And that being so, then what difference did anyone or any activity make?
"I can't remember the whole chain of my morbid thinking,
but I knew I had to clutch some kind of meaning or I would drown on dry land, then and there. As I surveyed my life, I realized that I had experienced meaning--and that it always involved stepping outside of myself, helping others to live and to fulfill themselves.
More clearly than ever before I realized the centrality of my work as a therapist and then I thought for hours about those I had helped; all my patients, old and new, paraded through my imagination.
"Many I knew I had helped but had I had an enduring impact on their lives? That was the question that plagued me. I think I told the rest of group before Pam returned that I had to know the
answer to this question so badly I decided to contact some of my old patients to find out whether I had truly made a difference.
Seems crazy, I know.
"Then, while browsing through the charts of my long-ago
patients, I also began thinking of those I had failed to help. What had happened to them ? I wondered. Could I have done more? And then the thought, the wishful thought, arose that maybe some of my failures were late bloomers, maybe they had gotten some
delayed benefit from our work together. Then my eye fell upon
Philip's chart, and I remember saying to myself, 'If you want
failure, there is failure--there is someone you really didn't help--
you couldn't make even a dent in his problems.' From that moment on, I had an irresistible impulse to contact Philip and find out what happened to him, to see if, in some way, I had been useful to him after all."
"So that's how it came about that you called him," said Pam.
"But how did it come about that he entered the group?"
"You want to pick it up from here, Philip?" said Julius.
"I believe it would be a richer exercise if you continued,"
said Philip with the slightest trace of a smile on his lips.
Julius quickly filled the group in on the subsequent events:
Philip's appraisal that his therapy had been without value and that Schopenhauer had been his real therapist, the e-mail invitation to the lecture, Philip's request for supervision...
"I don't get it, Philip," interrupted Tony. "If you didn't get anything from Julius in therapy, then why in hell would you want his supervision?"
"Julius posed that exact question, several times," said Philip.
"My answer is that even though he didn't help me, I could still appreciate his superior skills. Perhaps I was a recalcitrant, resistive patient, or perhaps my particular type of problem would not yield to his particular approach."
"Okay, got it," said Tony. "I interrupted you, Julius."
"I'm about finished. I agreed to become his supervisor with
one condition: that he first spend six months in my therapy group."
"I don't think you've ever explained why you made that
condition," said Rebecca.
"I observed the way he related to me and to his students and
told him that his impersonal and uncaring manner would interfere with his becoming a good therapist. Is that your view of it, Philip?"
"Your precise words to me were: 'How can you be a
therapist when you don't know what the fuck is going on between you and other people?'"
"Bingo," said Pam.
"Sounds like Julius, all right," said Bonnie.
"Sounds like Julius when his buttons are being pushed," said
Stuart. "Were you pushing his buttons?"
"Not intentionally," replied Philip.
"I'm still not clear, Julius," said Rebecca. "I understand why you called Philip, and why you advised him to get group therapy.
But why did you put him in your group or agree to supervise him?
You have plenty on your plate now. Why take on this additional task?"
"You guys are tough today. That's the big question and I'm
not sure I can answer it, but it's got something to do with
redemption and setting things right."
"I know a lot of this discussion was to fill me in and I
appreciate that, "said Pam. "I have just one more query. You said Philip twice offered you comfort--or tried to. I still haven't heard about the first time."
"Right, we started toward there but never got to it," Julius
responded. "I attended one of Philip's lectures and gradually
understood that he had constructed it specifically to offer me some help. He discussed at length a passage from a novel in which a dying man obtained much consolation from reading a passage by
Schopenhauer."
"Which novel?" asked Pam.
"Buddenbrooks, " replied Julius.
"And it wasn't helpful? Why not?" asked Bonnie.
"For several reasons. First Philip's mode of giving me
comfort was very indirect--much like the way he just presented the passage by Epictetus..."
"Julius," said Tony, "I'm not being a smart ass, but wouldn't
it be better to speak directly to Philip--and guess who I learned this from?"
"Thanks, Tony--you are one hundred percent right." Julius
turned to face Philip. "Your mode of offering me counsel in the course of a lecture was off-putting--so indirect and so public. And so unexpected because we had just spent an hour in private face-to-face talk in which you seemed utterly indifferent to my condition.
That was one thing. And the other was the actual content. I can't repeat the passage here--I don't have your photographic
memory--but essentially it described a dying patriarch having an epiphany in which the boundaries dissolved between himself and others. As a result he was comforted by the unity of all life and the idea that after death he would return to the life force whence he came and hence retain his connectedness with all living things.
That about right?" Julius looked at Philip, who nodded.
"Well, as I tried to tell you before, Philip, that idea offers me no comfort--zero. If my own consciousness is extinguished, then it matters little to me that my life energy or my bodily molecules or my DNA persists in deep space. And if connectivity is the quest, then I'd rather do it in person, in the flesh. So"--he turned and scanned the group and then faced Pam--"that was the first
consolation Philip offered, and the parable in your hands is the second."
After a brief silence Julius added, "I'm feeling I've been
doing too much talking today. How are you all responding to
what's been happening so far?"
"I'm interested," said Rebecca.
"Yeah," said Bonnie.
"This is some pretty high-level stuff going on," said Tony,
"but I'm staying with it."
"I'm aware," noted Stuart, "of ongoing tension here."
"Tension between...?" asked Tony.
"Between Pam and Philip, of course."
"And lots between Julius and Philip," added Gill, again
taking up Philip's cause. "I'm wondering, Philip, do you feel
listened to? Do you feel your contributions get the consideration they merit?"
"It seems to me, that...that...well..." Philip was unusually
tentative but soon regained his characteristic fluency. "Isn't it precipitous to dismiss so quickly--"
"Who are you talking to?" asked Tony.
"Right," answered Philip. "Julius, isn't it precipitous to
dismiss so quickly a concept that has offered consolation to much of humanity for millennia? It is Epictetus's idea, and
Schopenhauer's as well, that excessive attachment either to
material goods, to other individuals, or even attachment to the concept of 'I' is the major source of human suffering. And doesn't it follow that such suffering can be ameliorated by avoiding the attachment? Indeed, these ideas are at the very heart of the
Buddha's teaching as well."
"That's a good point, Philip, and I will take it to heart. What I hear you saying is that you're giving me good stuff which I
dismiss out of hand--and that leaves you feeling unvalued.
Right?"
"I said nothing about feeling unvalued."
"Not out loud. I'm intuiting that--it would be such a human
response. I've a hunch if you will look inside you'll find it there."
"Pam, you're rolling your eyes," said Rebecca. "Is this talk
about attachment reminding you of your meditation retreat in
India? Julius, Philip--both of you missed the postgroup coffee when Pam described her time at the ashram."
"Yep, exactly," said Pam. "I had a bellyful of talk about the
relinquishment of all attachments including the inane idea that we can sever our attachment to our personal ego. I ended up with
strong feelings that it was all so life-negating. And that parable Philip handed out--what's the message? I mean, what kind of