A hungry wolf born again as a lone wolf

The first person we meet in Irvin Yalom’s novel “The Schopenhauer Cure” is a 65-year-old San Francisco psychiatrist in seemingly good health who is shocked to learn that he has a fatal illness. As a therapist, Julius Hertzfeld has dealt with dying patients. As a sentient human being, he has contemplated the fact of his own mortality. But there is a great difference between comprehending death intellectually and being directly confronted by it.

Julius, who is not a religious man, has often found consolation in the words of the Greek philosopher Epicurus: “Where I am, death is not and where death is, I am not. Hence why fear death?” Even now, he is not so much fearful of death as shaken to realize how short a span of life and consciousness remains to him. His doctors have promised him one good year. How to make the most of it?

While some might throw habit to the winds in pursuit of exotic experiences, Julius recognizes the truth of what Nietzsche meant by “eternal recurrence”: live your life in such a way that you would be willing to repeat it eternally. As someone who feels he has led a good life, Julius decides to “live just the way he had lived the previous year -- and the year before that and before that. He loved being a therapist; he loved connecting to others and helping to bring something to life in them.”

Looking back over his career, Julius wonders how much -- or little -- he’s actually helped the many people he’s treated. What, for example, ever happened to the patient who was his most glaring failure: Philip Slate, a handsome, intelligent but distinctly coldblooded character whom he treated unsuccessfully for sexual addiction 15 years ago? Julius decides to get in touch with Philip to find out if the therapy might have had some beneficial effects after all.

Philip, it turns out, has overcome his sex addiction and credits his cure to the pessimistic wisdom of the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. To Julius’ surprise (and alarm), however, Philip has now set up as therapist, planning to offer clients the consolations of Schopenhauer’s renunciatory philosophy. Although intelligent and honest, he’s aloof and uncaring, unable -- or perhaps unwilling -- to relate to other human beings. Not, in short, a “people” person.

Julius persuades Philip to join his therapy group to learn the art of relationships. Coincidentally, the group includes Pam, one of the many women seduced and abandoned by Philip in his bad old days. The clash between the impassive ex-predator and his still-furious victim is a key part of the novel’s overarching theme: a debate between two divergent approaches to life -- the solitary, self-sufficient way of disengagement associated here with Schopenhauer, Buddhism and Eastern mysticism and the engaged, relationship-centered way that means so much to Julius.

Philip serves as a kind of latter-day stand-in for Schopenhauer (1788-1860), whose life story is crisply retailed in chapters that alternate with the present-day narrative. Yalom’s insightful account of Schopenhauer’s life offers a psychoanalytical explanation for his philosophy: The great philosopher (like Philip) suffered from uncaring parents, lack of social skills, misogyny and misanthropy. But Schopenhauer’s willingness to forgo the pleasures and perils of relationships and to face reality without the comforts of illusion makes him a potent adversary.

Julius’ focus as a therapist, however, is not on family history but on dealing with universal concerns as aloneness and mortality. His group therapy emphasizes relationships in the here-and-now rather than Oedipal ones. Not surprisingly, his outlook reflects that of his creator, a professor of psychiatry and a practicing therapist who has written textbooks on existential psychotherapy and group therapy. Yalom has also developed a highly distinctive brand of fiction. His 1989 bestseller, “Love’s Executioner,” blended psychotherapy with storytelling, and his 1993 novel, “When Nietzsche Wept,” used fiction and alter-histoire to probe questions of philosophy and psychotherapy.

Unlike novelists who disclaim any extra-literary motives in writing fiction, Yalom’s aims are unabashedly educational. Contrary to a widely held misconception, “educational” can mean interesting. Yalom’s enthusiasm is contagious, and his knack for presenting complex ideas and theories in clear, engaging prose makes him a popularizer in the finest sense. And he certainly knows how to tell a page-turning story.