months pregnant, back to Danzig during one of the century`s most severe winters. Years

later Johanna described her feelings at being yanked from London: «No one helped me, I

had to overcome my grief alone. The man dragged me, in order to cope with his anxiety,

halfway across Europe.»

This, then, was the stormy setting of the genius`s gestation: a loveless marriage, a

frightened, protesting mother, an anxious, jealous father, and two arduous trips across a

wintry Europe.

_________________________

Ahappy life is impossible; the

best that a man can attain is

a heroic life.

_________________________

Leaving Philip`s office, Julius felt stunned. He gripped the banister and unsteadily

descended the stairs and staggered into the sunlight. He stood in front of Philip`s building

and tried to decide whether to turn left or right. The freedom of an unscheduled afternoon

brought confusion rather than joy. Julius had always been focused. When he was not

seeing patients, other important projects and activities—writing, teaching, tennis,

research—clamored for his attention. But today nothing seemed important. He suspected

that nothing hadever been important, that his mind had arbitrarily imbued projects with

importance and then cunningly covered its traces. Today he saw through the ruse of a

lifetime. Today there was nothing important to do, and he ambled aimlessly down Union

Street.

Toward the end of the business section just past Fillmore Street, an old woman

approached him noisily pushing a walker.God, what a sight! Julius thought. He first

averted his face, then turned back to take inventory. Her clothes—several layers of

sweaters capped by a burly overcoat—were preposterous for the sunny day. Her

chipmunk cheeks churned hard, no doubt to keep dentures in place. But worst of all was

the huge excrescence of flesh that buttressed one of her nostrils—a translucent pink wart

the size of a grape, out of which sprouted several long bristles.

Stupid old ladywas Julius`s next thought, which he immediately amended: «She`s

probably no older than me. In fact, she`s my future—the wart, the walker, the wheelchair.

As she came closer, he heard her mumbling: «Now, let`s see what`s in these shops ahead.

What will it be? What will I find?»

«Lady, I have no idea, I`m just walking here,” Julius called out to her.

«I weren`t talking to you.»

«I don`t see anyone else here.»

«That still don`t mean I`m talking to you.»

«If not me, who?» Julius put his hands above his eyes and pantomimed looking up

and down the empty street.

«What`s it your business? Goddamn street freaks,” she muttered as she clanked her

walker past him.

Julius froze for a moment. He looked about him to make certain that no one had

witnessed that interaction. My God, he thought, I`m losing it—what the fuck am I doing?

Good thing I have no patients this afternoon. No doubt about it: spending time with Philip

Slate is not good for my disposition.

Turning toward the intoxicating aroma emanating from Starbucks, Julius decided

that an hour with Philip called for indulgence with a double espresso. He settled into a

window seat and watched the passing show. No gray heads to be seen, inside or outside.

At sixty–five he was the oldest person around, the oldest of the old, and rapidly growing

older inside as his melanoma continued its silent invasion.

Two pert counter clerks flirted with some of the male customers. These were the

girls that had never looked his way, never flirted with him when he was young nor caught

his gaze as he aged. Time to realize that his time would never come, that those nubile,

breasty girls with the Snow White faces would never turn his way with a coy smile and

say, «Hey, haven`t seen you here for a while. How`s it going?» It was not going to

happen. Life was seriously linear and not reversible.

Enough. Enough self–pity. He knew what to say to whiners: find a way to turn your

gaze outward, stretch beyond yourself. Yes, that was the way—find the route to turn this

shit into gold. Why not write about it? Perhaps as a personal journal or blog. Then

something more visible—who knows what?—maybe an article for theJournal of the

American Psychiatric Association on «The Psychiatrist Confronting Mortality.» Or

maybe something commercial for theSunday Times Magazine. He could do it. Or why not

a book? Something likeAutobiography of a Demise. Not bad! Sometimes when you find a

dynamite title, the piece just writes itself. Julius ordered an espresso, took out his pen and

unfolded a paper bag he found on the floor. As he began to scribble, his lips curled into a

slight smile at the humble origins of his powerful book.

Friday November 2, 1990. DDD (death–discovery day) + 16

No doubt about it: searching out Philip Slate was a bad idea. A bad idea to think I could

get something from him. A bad idea to meet with him. Never again. Philip a therapist?

Unbelievable—a therapist sans empathy, sensitivity, caring. He heard me say on the

phone that I had health problems and that these problems were part of the reason I

wanted to meet with him. Yet not one personal question about how I was doing. Not even

a handshake. Frigid. Inhuman. Kept ten feet away from me. I worked like hell for that guy

for three years. Gave him everything. Gave him my best stuff. Ungrateful bastard.

Oh yes, I know what he would say. I can hear that disembodied precise voice of

his: «You and I had a commercial transaction: I gave you money and you provided your

expert services. I paid promptly for every hour of your consultation. Transaction over.

We`re even; I owe you nothing.»

Then he`d add, «Less than nothing, Dr. Hertzfeld, you had the best of our bargain.

You received your full fee, whereas I received nothing of value in return.»

The worst thing is, he`s right. He owes me nothing. I crow about psychotherapy

being a life of service. Service lovingly given. I have no lien on him. Why expect

something from him? And, anyway, whatever it is I crave, he does not have it to give.

«He does not have it to give»—how many times have I said that to how many

patients—about husbands or wives or fathers. Yet I can`t let Philip go, this unrelenting,

callous, ungiving man. Shall I write an ode about the obligation patients owe in later

years to their therapists?

And why does it matter so much? And why, of all my patients, choose to contact

him? I still don`t know. I found a clue in my case notes—the feeling that I was talking to a

young phantasm of myself. Perhaps there`s more than a trace of Philip in me, in the me

who in my teens and twenties and thirties was whipped around by hormones. I thought I

knew what he was going through, I thought that I had an inside track to healing him. Is

that why I tried so hard? Why he got more attention and energy from me than most of my

other patients combined? In every therapist`s practice, there is always some patient who

consumes a disproportionate amount of the therapist`s energy and attention—Philip was

that person for me for three years.

Julius returned home that evening to a cold dark house. His son, Larry, had spent

the last three days with him but that morning had returned to Baltimore, where he did

neurobiological research at Johns Hopkins. Julius was almost relieved that Larry had

left—the anguished look on his face and his loving but clumsy efforts to comfort his