IRVIN YALOM WHEN NIETZSCHE WEPT PDF

Some cannot loosen their own chains and can nonetheless redeem their friends. You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame: how could you become new, if you had not first become ashes? He tugged his heavy gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. Once again, he read the small silver-bordered card he had received the day before. The future of German philosophy hangs in the balance. No one had addressed him so brashly in years.

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Some cannot loosen their own chains and can nonetheless redeem their friends. You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame: how could you become new, if you had not first become ashes? He tugged his heavy gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. Once again, he read the small silver-bordered card he had received the day before.

The future of German philosophy hangs in the balance. No one had addressed him so brashly in years. No address on the envelope. Breuer had come to Venice precisely to get away from matters of urgency. How long had he been daydreaming? He looked again at his watch. Another ten minutes of life squandered. And squandered on what? As usual he had been daydreaming about Bertha, beautiful Bertha, his patient for the past two years.

You will always be the only man in my life. Stop thinking! Open your eyes! Let the world in! He turned his head and looked about. Several held newspapers in one hand and coffee cups in the other. Beyond the tables, steel-blue clouds of pigeons hovered and swooped. The still waters of the Grand Canal, shimmering with the reflections of the great palaces lining its banks, were disturbed only by the undulating wake of a coasting gondola.

Other gondolas still slept, moored to twisted poles which lay askew in the canal, like spears flung down haphazardly by some giant hand. Or by looking and not seeing?

No images had transferred from his retina to his cortex. All his attention had been consumed with thoughts of Bertha: her beguiling smile, her adoring eyes, the feel of her warm, trusting body and her rapid breathing as he examined or massaged her. Such scenes had power—a life of their own; whenever he was off guard, they invaded his mind and usurped his imagination.

Is this to be my lot forever? Am I destined to be merely a stage on which memories of Bertha eternally play out their drama? Someone rose at the adjoining table. There she was! Only she could have written that note—that handsome woman, tall and slim, wrapped in fur, striding imperiously toward him now through the maze of tight-packed tables.

And as she neared, Breuer saw that she was young, perhaps even younger than Bertha, possibly a schoolgirl. But that commanding presence—extraordinary! It would carry her far! How could she be so sure it was he? His left hand quickly stroked the reddish bristles of his beard lest bits of breakfast roll still clung there. When she was only a few feet away, she stopped for an instant and gazed boldly into his eyes. Now looking required no concentration.

She was a woman of uncommon beauty: powerful forehead, strong, sculpted chin, bright blue eyes, full and sensuous lips, and carelessly brushed silver-blond hair gathered lackadaisically in a high bun, exposing her ears and her long, graceful neck. He noticed with particular pleasure the wisps of hair that had escaped the gathering bun and stretched out recklessly in every direction.

In three more strides, she was at his table. May I? She sat down so quickly that Breuer had no time to offer her a proper greeting—to rise, to bow, to kiss her hand, to pull out her chair. She nodded and, despite the morning chill, removed her fur wrap. It would be a great loss for me, and a great personal tragedy because I would bear some responsibility.

Yet I could endure and overcome it. Believe me. What would have seemed adolescent hyperbole in any other young woman seemed different here, something to be taken seriously. Her sincerity, her flow of conviction were irresistible.

Do I know of him? But in time we shall all know him. His name is Friedrich Nietzsche. Perhaps this letter from Richard Wagner to Professor Nietzsche may serve to introduce him. Should I read such a letter? How has she obtained it? Borrowed it? Stolen it? Breuer took pride in many of his attributes. He was loyal and generous.

At forty, he was known throughout Europe, and distinguished citizens from all over the West traveled great distances to consult him. Yet more than anything, he took pride in his integrity—not once in his life had he committed a dishonorable act. Unless perhaps he could be held accountable for his carnal thoughts of Bertha, thoughts that rightfully should be directed to his wife, Mathilde.

But only briefly. Another glance into her crystalline blue eyes and he opened it. You have now given to the world a work that is unequaled. Your book is characterized by an assurance so consummate as to betoken the most profound originality. In what other way could my wife and I have realized the most ardent wish of our lives, which was that some day something might come to us from without and take full possession of our hearts and souls!

Each of us has read your book twice—once alone during the day, and then aloud in the evening. We fairly fight over the one copy and regret that the promised second one has not yet arrived. But you are ill! Are you also discouraged? If so, how gladly would I do something to dispel your despondency! How shall I begin? I can do no other than lavish my unqualified praise upon you. Accept it, at least, in a friendly spirit, even though it leave you unsatisfied. Heartfelt greetings from yours, Richard Wagner Richard Wagner!

For all his Viennese urbanity, for all his familiarity and ease with the great men of his time, Breuer was dazzled. But he quickly regained his composure. He needs your help. What are his symptoms? First of all, tormenting headaches. And continued bouts of nausea. And impending blindness—his vision has been gradually deteriorating. And stomach trouble—sometimes he cannot eat for days. And insomnia—no drug can offer him sleep, so he takes dangerous amounts of morphia.

And dizziness—sometimes he is seasick on dry land for days at a time. That goes without saying. After all, I am a physician. But, please, allow me to pose a question. Why not simply write to my office in Vienna requesting an appointment? But this bold woman was not to be put off.

Or visit a physician in Italy? Where is his home? Would you like me to provide a referral to a physician in his own city? And why me? For that matter, how did you know I was in Venice? Or that I am a patron of the opera and admire Wagner? I think you are a young lady who enjoys mysteries! Surely that bodes well for future conversations.

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When Nietzsche Wept

The plot develops into a therapy where Breuer needs to have his soul treated, i. Influenced by the revolutionary ideas of his young disciple Sigmund Freud , Josef Breuer starts the dangerous strategy that will mean the origin of the psychoanalysis. Thanks to their unusual relation, both of them will see how their perspective of life changes completely. The story also explains how Friedrich Nietzsche received the inspiration to write his famous book, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. This independent American drama was filmed in Bulgaria. There is also a theatre play based on the novel, adapted by Luciano Cazaux. The play reflects the intellectual and philosophical atmosphere of the novel, almost dreamlike sometimes.

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