When Nietzsche Wept Page #5

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That's nine.

One more.

Idiot!!

Good. How is

she responding?

I love you.

Banish the tranquil idea

you've composed.

See Bertha as she would

be now each morning.

Spasms. Her arms

and legs in spasms.

Cross-eyed. M utant. Hallucinating.

Suffering I

See her as the infant

she longs to revert to.

See her as an adult,

sitting on the toilet

as she does

each day.

Ooh. H i, Josef.

If you are alone and you

begin to think of her,

tell her "Go away, I hate

you!" as loud as you can.

You pinch yourself as

hard as you can! Say it!

Go away!

Pinch yourselfl

Pinch yourselfl

Pinch yourself as hard as you can!

Go away!

I hate you!

Listen. If you're

ever alone

and you begin to think

about her, shout

"Go away, I hate you" as loud

as you can. Say it. I hate you.

I hate you!!

I hate you!

I hate you!!

I hate you!

I hate you!!

Louderl Say it. I hate you.

Say it! Josef, if you are ever

alone, you begin to think of her,

you shout "Go away, I hate

you" as loud as you can. Say it.

As loud as you can.

Say it. I hate you.

Go... away!!

I hate you!!

I love you.

Go away I I hate you I

What are we waiting for, Fishman?

Yeah, hol

H m.

Your heart

is strong.

But mine is close to bursting.

After yesterday, I feel like

a bear being trained to dance.

It's true. I've lowered you. And myself.

And a teacher should be a raiser of men.

We are

missing something.

Yes, we've neglected to

understand the meaning

behind your obsession.

How can we discover

the meaning of something

that I myself

have concealed?

By talking

about it.

What would your life be

if there was no Bertha?

Life without Bertha...

would be

a colorless one.

Everything would

be decided.

This medical bag,

these black clothes.

I'm a scientist. Yet

science has no color.

I need passion!

I need magic!

That's what

Bertha represents.

Life without passion,

without mystery?

Who can live

such a life?

But he is

expecting me.

You're lured to mystery.

You're lured to danger.

But I hate danger.

I live my

life safely.

Living safely

is what's dangerous.

Living safely

is dangerous?

N ietzsche, there is no

Professor N ietzsche here.

Oheck again.

There is no Professor N ietzsche here.

Perhaps Bertha represents

my desire to escape

my deadly safe life,

the trap of time.

Time is our

burden, Josef.

The greatest challenge

is to live in spite of it.

I hate women

with lips.

Why do you

show me this?

Because she has a combination of lips,

eyes and breasts...

that give her almost

superhuman powers.

Powers to

do what?

When I'm

with her,

I feel that I'm in the

center of an orderly,

tranquil universe.

An intensely

beautiful place

where there are no questions

about life or purpose.

Like walking

on clouds.

Where do your

thoughts go now?

Her eyes...

they glisten.

She doesn't speak,

yet she talks

to me.

And what does

she say?

She says...

"Josef,

you are adorable."

And in that moment, I am.

When she told me

one day that she

dreamed of us making

love, I was ecstatic.

What a victory.

To enter a place where

no man has ever been.

Have you ever known

a Bertha, Frederich?

Friedrich.

I once knew a woman who

could not be denied. Yes.

Tell me more

about this woman.

What was

her name?

Do you still

love her?

We are more

in love with desire,

than the desired.

Siggy.

These sessions

with N ietzsche

have become the center of my day.

Why?

The relief

of disclosure.

Perhaps in 50 years

this talking cure

might develop into

a precise science.

I thought I could help him.

No longer.

He has everything

to offer me.

I'm wondering if part

of this talking cure

involves learning with the

patient transfers to his doctor.

Shh.

What would it be to

live as Nietzsche lives?

No house.

No obligations.

No wife.

No responsibilities.

"Goodbye, my dear Lou.

"I won't see

you again.

"You've caused damage.

You've done harm.

And not only to me, but to

all people who loved me."

"And this

sword hangs over you.

But I hope you will make good to Henry,

what you couldn't

make good to me.

Yesl

You make music sick.

You are sick!

You are sick!

Wagner.

The first requiems.

You make music sickl

You tyrant I

You tyrant I

You antisemitel

I hate you I

I hate you I

Wagner. You make music sick.

Hate.

Hate.

Hate.

Fritz.

Fritz.

Hate.

Fritz!

Hate!

Look at me!

Talk to my animals.

Fritz!

Hate.

I visit my

parents' grave once a month.

Would you like to come with me today?

It's less than one

hour's ride from the city.

Why didn't you tell me your

mother's name was Bertha?

She died when I was three.

I have very few

memories of her.

No conscious memories.

Are you suggesting

I love Bertha

because she and my mother

shared the same name?

My mother is hardly real to me.

Bertha Pappenheim is the

most real thing in my life.

I think your obsession with Bertha

has never been

about Bertha.

A year after my father

died, I had a dream.

This grave opens,

and my father

rises up,

and he runs

to this church.

It's where

he preached.

And he grabbed

this small child,

and he climbed back...

into the grave.

I always believed

that this dream

predicted my

brother's death, but

I suspect it

was my own...

it was my

own fear.

I was

that boy.

I n my

father's arms.

And fear is expressed in

your dream where you...

plunge towards

the closed coffin.

Who is inside

the coffin?

I don't remember.

Who is the one who

stops you from falling

to your death?

Your crippled Bertha?

Or perhaps

your mother?

The real Bertha.

Who, Josef?

Who is inside

the coffin?

I can still

see her face.

She's smiling

at me.

H m.

Your mother?

How could she

leave me?

I never really

let her go.

Perhaps adult figures enter a

child's mind and refuse to leave.

But you must be as

frightened as I am of death...

and godlessness.

We must die. But at the right time.

Death only loses its terror when one has

consummated one's life.

Have you consummated your life?

I have achieved

a great deal.

But have you

lived your life?

Or have you been lived by it?

You stand outside

your life, grieving,

for some life

that you...

you never lived.

I cannot change

my lifel

I have my family,

my patients!

Students.

It's too late.

I cannot tell you how

to live differently.

If I did, you'd still be

living by some other's design,

but perhaps I could

give you a gift, Josef.

Maybe I could give

you a thought.

What if some demon

were to say to you

that this life,

as you now live it,

have lived it

in the past,

you would have to live

once more but...

innumerable times more.

There will be nothing new in it.

Every pain, every joy, every

unutterably small or great thing

in your life would

just return to you.

The same succession, the same

sequence, again and again,

like an hourglass

of time.

I magine infinity.

Oonsider the possibility that

every action you choose, Josef,

you choose

for all time.

Then all... unlived life

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