A Schumannesque Mood

Brian--
Hey, buddy. How are you this week, my dear American friend?
July 29. I'm still in a Schumannesque mood, a labile mood. You know the old expression: "If it ain't got that swing, it don't mean a thing." As the saxophone-playing, numbers-crunching, dismal scientist Alan Greenspan would say, my mood -- like the national economy -- cycles between irrational exuberance and dark pessimism.
By the way, have you ever been to a party at Alan Greenspan's and Andy Mitchell's? I'm sure Bob Strauss has--Strauss and Len Garment are old friends of the Greenspans. Strauss attended the Greenspan wedding, back in about '97; they were married by a local judge--a little old Jewish lady from Brooklyn. The Greenspans have this beautiful grand piano in their home. I suppose Condy Rice has played it. If she played anything, she'd probably have played Brahms--her favorite composer. You know the reason Condy Rice likes Brahms? Brahms never really finishes off a musical phrase--he goes from phrase to phrase, without any conclusive cadences. It's a lot like President Bush's foreign policy. He starts a war in Afghanistan then segues into a war in Iraq. Not that I'm criticizing the President. I love Brahms; say what you will about Brahms, but the world is a lot better off without conclusive cadences, in Iraq or elsewhere. Today is the anniversary of Robert Schumann's death in the asylum, where he admitted himself after he tried to commit suicide. I suppose you could say he was suffering from a serious downturn in his mental economy.
There is a note in Frederic Chopin's diary dated July 30, 1856: "Schumann died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure. The telegram from the asylum says: YOUR FRIEND ROBERT SCHUMANN PASSED AWAY, FUNERAL TOMORROW. DEEP SYMPATHY. Which leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been yesterday." In fact, Schumann died on July 29, a stranger to the world, with only his wife, Clara, and his dear friend Johannes Brahms at his side. Schumann appears to have suffered from manic-depression: the real kind, not the fake variety they specialize in at GW. I myself was diagnosed with and treated for manic depression at GW by Suzanne M. Pitts, M.D., back in 1992 - 1993. I was prescribed lithium-based medication. Turns out I had the fake kind of manic depression. Pseudo manic depression, I suppose, is the technical name for it. Apparently the illness is recognized by the U.S. Social Security Administration; they've already paid out more than $100,000 in benefits based on my initial diagnosis at GW in 1993: pseudo manic depression. I have to hand it to Dr. Pitts, though. She had the hard task of making all this sound authentic to the Feds. She's the Colin Powell of psychiatry. Suzanne Martel Pitts did wonders impersonating a psychiatrist, as if she were a real doctor. I think they got Dr. Pitts straight out of central casting.
I'm in a very dark place (if you'll pardon the expression): a sad, raw, dark place -- all day, every day. There is no moment to leave it. There is only time for sleep. Even though it exhausts me emotionally and uses me up, it is the price I have to pay. What is my reason for battling my nightmarish struggle for life when I could end it so simply? I may fool you all . . . you know, I may finally do something. . . . Then perhaps Freedman "will do something to redeem the last sixteen wasted years." Yes, the last sixteen years, since I started working at "The Firm," have been a nightmarish waste.
I can't get the image of Robert Schumann's final days out of my mind: the harrowing days just before the great composer entered "The Dead Poet's Society." Those dark days were horrible. The treatment of mental patients in the nineteenth century was barbaric. Has anything changed? Schumann's doctors probably killed him, inadvertently.
In general, the medical director at the asylum where Schumann was confined associated mental illness with what he perceived as sinful behavior. This was in keeping with his diagnosis of "incomplete general paralysis"--French psychiatrists had attributed the condition to "immoral excesses such as alcoholism, 'violent passions,' or sexual overindulgence." For a cure, the medical director's approach was to deal with the body. Mental problems would then heal of their own accord. Treatment included cold baths, copper- and opium-based medication, and strict regulation of diet. In an attempt to purify the patient's system, an increasing regimen of laxatives and diuretics preceded by substantial meals, heavy in calories were prescribed. Reacting strongly to this barbaric treatment, several patients (possibly including Schumann) protested with hunger strikes. The staff responded with a number of tortuous devices intended to force them to eat. In desperation, patients were restrained and force-fed (with a diet of port wine and meat extract) by means of enemas. Schumann's death was attributed to starvation; he died "in a state of extreme emaciation" reportedly resulting from his "frequently refusing all nourishment."
Three years before Schumann died, he befriended Johannes Brahms--"The Talented Mr. Brahms"-- who was about twenty years younger than Schumann. The two composers became great friends. In fact, so great was the attraction between Schumann and Brahms that Schumann insisted the younger man move into his house. Brahms was at Clara Schumann's side after Robert tried to commit suicide, and he was at her side after he died, in 1856. Brahms ended by falling in love with Clara. There are stories that the relationship between them was more than platonic, but it is hard to believe that Clara would have given herself to Brahms. Her mind, from everything we know about her, did not work that way. She was the widow of the great Robert Schumann, and she became a professional widow who wore mourning clothes all her life. For Clara Schumann, every day was Tisha b'Av. Brahms never married. This past week I had several recollections, peculiar recollections--uncanny recollections--relating to Robert Schumann.
Years ago, during my pre-morbid youth (in the days before the onset of my pseudo manic depression), I worked at The Franklin Institute Research Laboratories, in Philadelphia. One of the managers there--my boss, in a sense--was one Bernard E. Epstein. I -- like Bernie Epstein -- had always had a fondness for the Schumann symphonies. You should have heard Bernie's wife, Aida, play Schumann's "Trauemerei." The Epsteins had a great party at their home in Huntingdon Valley, Pennsylvania, in April 1970, during Pesach. (Coincidentally, at that very moment, the precocious Rubenstein was doing an extended "concert tour" in south Florida; now there was a lad whose fingers could make the young ladies swoon). Delicate Japanese lanterns were strung in the Epstein garden, and wires hidden among the trees produced Mozart concerti to accompany the delicious food the Epsteins themselves had cooked and the 1953 Chateau Lascombes wine (kosher l'Pesach, of course).
From what I hear the Epstein party wasn't a drunken orgy, but then Bernie Epstein was no swinging Mormon, though he may be some day. The Mormons have given up polygamy, I hear, and now invest their energies in converting Jews posthumously, without their consent. Personally, I have to say, if I were a Mormon I'd prefer doing a clan of eager women at my pleasure than waste my time converting dead Jews. But hey, that's me.
The Epsteins didn't invite me to the party. I wasn't cool enough or hip enough for them (or Rubenstein, for that matter). Bernie Epstein, a saxophone-playing, syncopated Joy-Boy, was a flashy guy: hip, makin' the scene. You know the type, Brian. The Epsteins were into Schumann, cork-lined walls and furniture designed by George Nakashima, a Japanese immigrant. I suppose they thought I wouldn't fit in with their crowd. Aida (also known as "Didi") studied piano under Danny Barenboim; Danny and Aida were Argentine lanzmen. They spoke Spanish together--like two Viennese schoolboys. Did I ever mention that? In any event, Aida Epstein entertained the guests at the piano. She played Robert Schumann's "Trauemerei," among other things, so I hear. (She didn't play Chopin; Frederic--the composer, not the mohel--wasn't cool enough for the Epsteins either). I suppose the Japanese-born Cecelia Segawa Siegle was one of the invited guests; she's now a professor at The University of Pennsylvania.
That's an odd recollection, don't you think? In sum, I can remember that in April 1970, when I was 16 years old, Aida Epstein (an individual I have never met) performed Robert Schumann's "Trauemerei" (a piece that lasts at most about three minutes) at a party that I myself did not attend.
Then, something else. In 1993, when I was in treatment (actually I'm being polite--the correct term would be "treatment") -- when I was in treatment with Suzanne Pitts--an internationally recognized expert in the diagnosis and care of pseudo manic depression--I related an anecdote from childhood. A Scene From Childhood, as it were.
I told Dr. Pitts that when I was about ten years old I had seen a movie about the life of Robert Schumann, broadcast on television, titled "Song of Love." The movie, made in 1947, starred Katherine Hepburn as Clara Schumann. Those were the days before Katherine Hepburn aspired to be an oak tree for the amusement of Barbara Walters. I told Dr. Pitts that I was emotionally moved by a scene in the movie that takes place at a party (I don't think the Schumanns served matzo, but then, of course, I don't know if the party took place at Pesach). At the party, Clara Schumann chastised Franz Liszt about Liszt's showy performance of Robert Schumann's song, "Widmung."
Dr. Pitts used to complain that all I did was relate meaningless anecdotes, rather than talk about my "feelings." All I can say is, check the DSM-IV, sister! One of the diagnostic criteria of pseudo mental illness is an obsession with meaningless details.
"Pitts--that's an unfortunate name." That's a quote from "The Dead Poet's Society." Did you ever see that movie? The movie takes place at an all-boys school. Like the one that Fredric (the French-speaking mohel who dabbled in presidential politics -- not the composer) and I attended.
Well, oddly enough--or "oddly enough"--a description of that very scene, which I experienced as so moving at age 10, found it's way into Rubinstein's autobiography. (Rubinstein wrote the book while his hands were otherwise unoccupied with piano keys, young ladies, or hanging chads from Chad, Rhodesia -- or Kenya). You think that's mere coincidence? That a trivial detail, a trivial recollection, a seemingly meaningless Scene From my Childhood -- a scene from a movie that so moved me -- also moved the great Rubinstein? All I can say is -- "Pitts: it's more than just an unfortunate name!"
Here's what Rubinstein wrote: "A film which gave me real pleasure was the one which MGM [that's Metro Goldwyn Mayer--not Murray G. Marion] made of the life of Robert Schumann. This time I had to contribute all the music which had to be performed later on the screen by the actors who played Robert Schumann, Clara Schumann, his wife, Johannes Brahms, and Franz Liszt.
It was a moving experience for me to try to imagine how these great artists performed and once I had to play the same piece in different ways. Robert Schumann presented to Clara, his young bride, the lovely and touching song "Widmung" (dedication) and played it for her rather imperfectly but with great feeling. At a great party, at which the Schumanns and Brahms were present, Liszt, who performed his own "Mephisto Waltz," gave as an encore his brilliant and showy concert version of that same song. Clara Schumann, displeased with his showy performance, gave the great pianist a lesson by playing it to him in its original form, simply and beautifully. I had the hard task of making all this sound authentic. Katherine Hepburn did wonders impersonating Clara Schumann, playing the concertos of Liszt and Schumann, and other works, as if she were a born pianist. The whole film was made with love and respect for the subject."
Be that as it may.
The final recollection that concerns Robert Schumann is as follows. Friday evening, March 25, 1988. I had just started working at Akin Gump, my old law firm, in early March. You remember it was also in early March 1988 that I first encountered you, buddy, at the Cleveland Park Library. But that's neither here nor there--or is it?
That evening Public Television broadcast a performance of the Brahms third symphony. It was conducted by Leonard Bernstein. At the beginning of the program, Lenny offered some comments about the Brahms third. He said that it was "the most enigmatic of the four Brahms symphonies." Whatever that means! I don't know what "enigmatic" music is. I've always been particularly moved by the Brahms third. The work was written years after Brahms' great friend, Robert Schumann had died, but contains a musical reference to Schumann. The Brahms third opens with a musical quote, a six-note descending phrase, from the first movement of Schumann's own third symphony. I like to imagine that the entire Brahms symphony, with all its tortured emotionality, was written as a monument to his dear friend and mentor who died so tragically. I always think of Robert Schumann when I hear that music by Brahms. The music makes me think of friendship and remembrance.
Now that's "extreme sensitivity"--in the Schumannesque sense. Imagine recalling off the top of your head that on the evening of Friday, March 25, 1988--sixteen years ago--you heard a broadcast performance of the Brahms third symphony conducted by Leonard Bernstein -- probably because the symphony calls to mind thoughts of friendship, loss, and remembrance. I don't think The Mad Monk gets any of this, or anything else about my personality. She just "doesn't get it." To paraphrase a slogan from the Clinton campaign in '92 -- "It's the intrapsychic mental economy, stupid!"
How is The Mad Monk doing, you ask? She's still mad, mad, mad.
"Did you work yesterday, Dr. Bash?" "Yes. Was it a holiday?" she asked. "Yes," I said, "it was Tisha b'Av." "Did you fast?" I asked. "No. Did you?" "No."
Tisha b'Av, the ninth day of the month of Av on the Hebrew calendar is a holiday, a fast day, a day of mourning that commemorates the destruction of the first and second Jewish Temples in Jerusalem, in ancient times.
"I see you didn't bring in a few pages of your book," said The Mad Monk. "No. I'm not interested in your opinion about my book. The Pope liked it." "The Pope?" "Yes." "Wow," said The Mad Monk. "Why would I need your opinion if I already know the Pope liked my book?" "And how did the Pope get your book?" "From the Prime Minister of Israel," I explained. -- How did the Pope get my book? Now really! How does she think he got the book?
"President Clinton liked the book, too. And Hillary Clinton." "How did Bill Clinton get a copy of your book?" "Through Vernon Jordan," I explained. "Who?" "Vernon Jordan," I repeated. "Vernon Jordan is a partner at the old law firm where I used to work. He's a close friend of President Clinton's." "Did Bill Clinton like the book?" "Sure," I said, "what's not to like?" "I just want to be Brian's friend, Dr. Bash." "But Brian doesn't want to have anything to do with you," she said. "But Brian likes me," I said. "That's why he called the police on you, because he likes you?" said The Mad Monk. "Yes," I said -- as if the reason were obvious. "Brian's a latent homosexual. (I meant that in a good way, buddy.) He likes me and he feels threatened by the fact that he likes me, so he called the police on me." "You have a reason for everything," said Dr. Bash, "but your reasons are all irrational." I felt like saying: "Just because I'm crazy doesn't mean I can't be irrational."
I told Dr. Bash about my plan to send a copy of my autobiography to the Department of Psychology at New York University, Dr. Bash's alma mater. I told her that perhaps as a professional courtesy, the psychology department would review the book and offer comments to Dr. Bash about it. Dr. Bash said the psychology department wouldn't be interested. Maybe the literature department would be interested, she said. I found Dr. Bash's notion incredibly naive. Even educated laymen are aware that a piece of creative writing can reveal a lot about the writer's personality. That Dr. Bash seemed unaware that my book reveals anything of interest about my personality is actually frightening in its naivete.
"Did you watch any of the Democratic Convention," asked Dr. Bash. "No," I said, "I don't like Kerry."
My candidate was Joe Lieberman. Not because of his religion. I just thought it would be cool to have a first lady named Hadassah. In my estimation, John Kerry is lackluster. Any candidate who makes George Bush look charismatic by comparison has got some real problems, in my mind. And John Edwards? I don't know what, if anything, John Edwards does for Barney Frank and the other members of the Congressional Gay Caucus, but I'll tell you this -- I need more than just a pretty face!
You gotta hand it to these candidates. What they go through! The nonstop speechmaking, the rubber chicken night after night, having to shake hands with the unemployed. That's the great thing about being a dictator, like General Bonaparte, the little man from Corsica. You never have to shake hands with the unemployed. You know what I mean, Brian? It's like Barney Frank once said, "I spent an hour this morning shaking hands with the unemployed. But if you have to, you have to!"
I told Dr. Bash that there's a Jewish congregation here in Washington that has a homosexual membership: Bet Mishpachah. The House of the Family. "Would you like to join?" asked The Mad Monk. "I don't know," I said, "it would make me uncomfortable. Not because they're homosexuals. Joining any organization would make me uncomfortable. I'm not a joiner. I like certain people, certain kinds of people--and other than that, I'm not interested in people. I'm a misanthrope. If I'm in a group of people, I just start out with a feeling of discomfort, a feeling that there will be nobody there that I have anything in common with." Dr. Bash said: "That's because you lack social skills."
Again with the social skills. I may be lacking in social skills, but frankly, if I suffer from a schizoid personality disorder, the restrictions imposed on my social functioning by that disorder far outweigh the impairment posed by any lack of social skills. I feel like telling Dr. Bash: "Pick a diagnosis and stick to it." Anthony Storr writes: "One of the most characteristic traits of the people psychiatrists label schizoid is their inability to make close relationships with people without feeling threatened. The typical schizoid dilemma is a desperate need for love combined with an equally desperate fear of close involvement." Schizoid personality disorder is to a lack of social skills what migraine is to a tension headache.
"From my youth upwards my spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, the aim of their existence was not mine; my joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, made me a stranger; though I wore the form, I had no sympathy with breathing flesh." That's from Lord Byron's "Manfred," a dramatic poem that was set to music by Robert Schumann, by the way. (Did you know that Lenny made his debut with the New York Philharmonic in the early '40s conducting Schumann's Manfred Overture?)
If you look at the movies that held my fascination as a boy, you see something revealing about my nature; I loved movies about the isolated hero, the hero who was consumed with the pain and passion of the lonely quest. "Birdman of Alcatraz," with Burt Lancaster (I remember being deeply upset by the scene where the prison warden confiscates the Birdman's bird collection); "Christopher Columbus," starring Frederick March; "The Egyptian," the story of a lowly physician who comes to the attention of Pharaoh -- suffers the destruction of his career -- and ends his days in exile in the desert, writing his memoirs (those things only happen on Hollywood sound stages, of course). And Robert Schumann! I should have known there was already a problem. A ten-year-old boy who identifies with a mad composer who dies at age 46 in a lunatic asylum, with one dear friend at his side. What do you say about that, Glickman? Did you hear about Glickman, Brian? He's gone from "The Man Who Bought His Dinner with Food Stamps" to "The Man Who Came to Dinner."
Back to my session with The Mad Monk. "When I was in college I belonged to Hillel. Are you familiar with that organization?" Hillel is a national organization for Jewish students, with branches at various colleges. "They used to sponsor Sunday brunches -- you know, bagels and lox, that type of thing. Well, I used to go. I chatted with people. But nothing ever came of it. I didn't meet anybody I felt I wanted to be friends with."
Dr. Bash asked: "What would you like to talk to Brian about?" "Nothing," I said. I chuckled. I meant "nothing" in the technical, Seinfeldian sense. I think Dr. Bash thought I meant "nothing" in the common, colloquial sense.
"If I were to talk to Brian, it would be a conversation about nothing." "A conversation about nothing?" "Yes. For example, what did you do today?" "I got up and came to work." "See, there's a conversation. I could talk about that with Brian." "But you don't work." "That's even better. Brian and I would have even less to talk about!"
"So you just go to the library once a week now," said The Mad Monk. "Yes," I said, "I just go once a week. I just write one letter per week to Brian now. I used to write a letter to Brian about every day. That was when I used to go to my local library every day -- the branch where Brian works. But now that I don't get to see Brian, I don't feel inspired." "That's good," said Dr. Bash, "out of sight, out of heart." "Out of sight, out of mind," I corrected. "That's true to some extent. I'm just as obsessed with Brian as I used to be, but I don't feel as creatively inspired as I used to. But the obsession is still there."
"Did you get a chance to see Bill Clinton's book?" asked Dr. Bash. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I saw a copy at a bookstore, and I read the first page. It was interesting, but I was disappointed. Stylistically, it wasn't impressive." "It was written by a shadow writer," Dr. Bash explained. "You mean a 'ghost writer,'" I corrected.
"I was thinking of getting Brian a gift, Dr. Bash." "A gift? What would you do with it?" "I could leave it at the door of the library." "Don't do that," said Dr. Bash, "it will get you in trouble." "But, Dr. Bash, I could leave the gift anonymously, simply address the gift to Brian." "Don't do it," said Dr. Bash. "You need to forget about Brian, you need to put Brian out of your mind," said The Mad Monk.
Dr. Bash continued: "You need to invest your energy into publishing your book. You need to find a publisher. I tell you what: if you get your book published, you could give Brian an autographed copy of it. He would look up to you." And this comes right after The Mad Monk said I need to get Brian out of my mind! The Mad Monk is continually undermining her credibility; her ad hoc dissembling undermines any sense of genuineness about her statements.
"But Dr. Bash, Brian already looks up to me. Brian likes me." "That's why he called the police on you?" asked Dr. Bash rhetorically.
"I know Brian likes me. I know people. Let me tell you something. There used to be a young guy in my apartment building. I didn't know anything about him. He used to see me sitting in the lobby. He'd look at me sometimes and smile. Once I heard him talking to the front-desk manager (Elizabeth Joyce). It was just a routine matter. But he was so eloquent. The way he talked, his use of language. I thought: 'He must be a lawyer. He must have graduated from an ivy league school.' Well, after he moved out of the building, I found out his name was Jared Silverman. I looked him up. He was in fact a lawyer, and he graduated from The University of Pennsylvania. So, how did I know that? I just know. I know people."
At this point Dr. Bash said something revealing. She asked me: "Did you talk to him (Jared Silverman)?" Note that just a few weeks ago, I said there was someone in the building who I liked--who I thought I might be friends with (David Dickenson). Dr. Bash asked: "What does he do?" I explained that he was a lawyer. She said: "Forget about it. No lawyer is going to be friends with you." At this consultation Dr. Bash inquires about whether I made any effort to be friends with the lawyer, Jared Silverman. See the inconsistency? Though in all fairness to Dr. Bash, she did not know the time frame of the Jared Silverman anecdote. She might have assumed I was working at that time. But I wonder. Can I be a friend with a lawyer or not? Would I want to be friends with a lawyer?
"Years ago," I continued, "at a law firm where I used to work, there was a law clerk. I knew he was special. I don't know how I knew. But I knew. And I really knew nothing about him except for what I observed. So what do you think he's doing now? He's the Inspector General at the Justice Department. I found out he has two degrees from Harvard. A bachelor's degree in economics and his law degree. He was a Rhodes scholar. You know what that is? And he was a star basketball player in college. How did I know he was special? I just knew."
"A few years ago, there was a young guy in my building. His name was Ari. I think he was a Jewish kid. Ari is a common name in Israel, isn't it? Elizabeth Joyce knew him. He looked like a tough kid. He would look at me straight in the eye. Sometimes he would smile. I felt some kind of bond with him. And we never spoke. It was totally nonverbal. I wonder what he's doing now. I pinpointed him as someone who was going places in life. I just think he's somebody who's done something with his life. He impressed me. Most people are sheep in my estimation. I hate sheep. This kid didn't look like a sheep."
"When I worked at Akin Gump, back in 1989, I worked with a young guy, John Falk--he was a temporary paralegal. He was from Arizona. He was very independent-minded. I liked him. We went to lunch three times. He said he wanted to join the Marines." "You felt comfortable with him?" asked The Mad Monk. "Yes," I said, "he was someone I felt comfortable with." Dr. Bash seemed impressed with what I was telling her. That's rare, I have to tell you. She seemed to accept the idea that I had some kind of intuition about people.
She asked me about the social clubs that my apartment building is in the process of organizing. I explained that the clubs are in the planning stage right now. Nothing concrete has been settled about them. Dr. Bash encouraged me to join something. I didn't tell Dr. Bash that I suggested to building management that they organize a "Nudist Club" as well as a "Brad Dolinsky Fan Club." I suggested to the front desk manager, Mardi, that Brad (Captain Vagina) could give tenants advice on women, dating, and relationships. Mardi told me the Nudist Club was a nonstarter. "This is a conservative organization," she said.
I told Dr. Bash that I felt I was throwing my life away. "I was thinking the other day that I could live another thirty years. What am I going to do, be thinking about Brian for the next thirty years?"
Dr. Bash said: "In the Jewish religion you are allowed to mourn for only one year. Just one year." I guess Clara Schumann, the professional mourner, wasn't Jewish. I know she didn't serve matzo at dinner parties. I told The Mad Monk I had till next April to mourn for you, buddy.
I said to Dr. Bash: "I long for Brian." She wrote that down; she takes notes. She spoke the following words aloud as she wrote them down: "I long for Brian." Actually, I was striking a Hermann Hesse-like pose. There's a line in his novel Demian in which Sinclair says about his friend, "How I longed for Demian!" But it's the way I feel.
"What do you do all day?" asked Dr. Bash. "I lay on my couch, stare into space, and think about Brian."
In fact, right now I have a rendezvous with my couch. Check you out next week, Brian. August 15th will be Vernon Jordan's birthday. Coincidentally, it's also General Bonaparte's birthday. Maybe the three of us--you, me, and Vernon Jordan--could get together for lunch. Just the three of us. I think we can leave General Bonaparte out of it. People might talk.
See you, buddy. Try to keep your moral excesses in check.