Lying on the Couch by Irvin D. Yalom Page B
Authors: Irvin D. Yalom
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Mystery & Detective, Psychotherapists, Therapist and patient
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one, we get the other. Hurt the doc, we hurt Justin."
"Not quite," said Carol, her long neck now fully emerged from her cowl, her voice steely and impatient. "Hurting Lash alone wouldn't do anything. It might even bring them closer together. No, the real target is the relationship: I destroy that, and I'll get to Justin."
"You ever met Lash, Carol?" asked Heather.
"No. Several times Justin told me he wanted me to come in for a
6 i -- Lying on the Couch
couples session, but I've had it with shrinks. Once, about a year ago, curiosity got the better of me, though, and I went to one of his lectures. Arrogant blimp. I remember thinking how I'd like to set off a bomb under his couch or put my fist right into that sanctimonious face. It would settle some scores. Old ones and new ones."
As Heather and Norma brainstormed about how to nail a shrink, Carol grew still. She stared at the fire, thinking of Dr. Ernest Lash, her cheeks glistening and reflecting the glow of the eucalyptus embers. And then it came to her. A door opened in her mind; an idea, a stupendous idea, swiveled into view. Carol knew exactly what she had to do! She rose, took the dolls from the mantel, and tossed them onto the fire. The delicate twine binding them together flared briefly, then became an incandescent thread before falling into ash. The dolls seeped smoke, turned dark with heat, and soon burst into flame. Carol stoked the ashes and then announced, "Thank you, my friends. I know my way now. Let's see how Justin does with his shrink out of business. Conference adjourned, ladies."
Heather and Norma didn't budge.
"Trust me," said Carol, closing the fire screen. "Better not to know more. If you don't know, you'll never have to perjure yourselves."
THREE
rnest entered Printers Inc. bookstore in Palo Alto and glanced at the poster on the door.
DR. ERNEST LASH
Assoc. Clin. Prof, of Psychiatry, U. ofCal. San Francisco Speaking on his new book:
BEREAVEMENT: FACTS, FADS, AND FALLACIES Feb. 19. 8 - 9 PM - followed by book signing
Ernest glanced at the list of speakers from the previous week. Impressive! He was traveling in good company: Alice Walker, Amy Tan, James Hillman, David Lodge. David Lodge —from England.> How had they snared him}
As he strolled in, Ernest wondered whether the customers milling
^4 ' ^ Lying on the Couch
about in the store recognized him as the evening's speaker. He introduced himself to Susan, the owner, and accepted her offer of a cup of coffee from the bookstore cafe. Heading toward the reading room, Ernest scanned the new titles for his favorite writers. Most stores allowed speakers to choose a free book for their efforts. Ah, a new book by Paul Auster!
Within minutes, his bookstore blues descended. Books everywhere, shrieking for attention on large display tables, shamelessly exhibiting their iridescent green and magenta jackets, heaped on the floor patiently awaiting shelving, spilling off tables, splashing onto the floor. Against the far wall of the store, great mounds of failed books glumly awaited return to their maker. Next to them stood unopened cartons of bright young volumes eager for their moment in the sun.
Ernest's heart went out to his little baby. What chance did it have in this ocean of books, one frail little spirit, swimming for its life?
He turned into the reading room, where fifteen rows of metal chairs had been unfolded. Here his Bereavement: Facts, Fads, and Fallacies was prominently displayed; several stacks, perhaps a total of sixty books, awaited signing and purchase next to the podium. Fine. Fine. But what about his book's future? What about two or three months hence? Perhaps one or two copies filed inconspicuously under L in the psychology or the self-help section. Six months hence? Vanished! "Available only on special order; should arrive in three to four weeks."
Ernest understood that no store had room enough to display all books, even those of great merit. At least, he could understand
"Not quite," said Carol, her long neck now fully emerged from her cowl, her voice steely and impatient. "Hurting Lash alone wouldn't do anything. It might even bring them closer together. No, the real target is the relationship: I destroy that, and I'll get to Justin."
"You ever met Lash, Carol?" asked Heather.
"No. Several times Justin told me he wanted me to come in for a
6 i -- Lying on the Couch
couples session, but I've had it with shrinks. Once, about a year ago, curiosity got the better of me, though, and I went to one of his lectures. Arrogant blimp. I remember thinking how I'd like to set off a bomb under his couch or put my fist right into that sanctimonious face. It would settle some scores. Old ones and new ones."
As Heather and Norma brainstormed about how to nail a shrink, Carol grew still. She stared at the fire, thinking of Dr. Ernest Lash, her cheeks glistening and reflecting the glow of the eucalyptus embers. And then it came to her. A door opened in her mind; an idea, a stupendous idea, swiveled into view. Carol knew exactly what she had to do! She rose, took the dolls from the mantel, and tossed them onto the fire. The delicate twine binding them together flared briefly, then became an incandescent thread before falling into ash. The dolls seeped smoke, turned dark with heat, and soon burst into flame. Carol stoked the ashes and then announced, "Thank you, my friends. I know my way now. Let's see how Justin does with his shrink out of business. Conference adjourned, ladies."
Heather and Norma didn't budge.
"Trust me," said Carol, closing the fire screen. "Better not to know more. If you don't know, you'll never have to perjure yourselves."
THREE
rnest entered Printers Inc. bookstore in Palo Alto and glanced at the poster on the door.
DR. ERNEST LASH
Assoc. Clin. Prof, of Psychiatry, U. ofCal. San Francisco Speaking on his new book:
BEREAVEMENT: FACTS, FADS, AND FALLACIES Feb. 19. 8 - 9 PM - followed by book signing
Ernest glanced at the list of speakers from the previous week. Impressive! He was traveling in good company: Alice Walker, Amy Tan, James Hillman, David Lodge. David Lodge —from England.> How had they snared him}
As he strolled in, Ernest wondered whether the customers milling
^4 ' ^ Lying on the Couch
about in the store recognized him as the evening's speaker. He introduced himself to Susan, the owner, and accepted her offer of a cup of coffee from the bookstore cafe. Heading toward the reading room, Ernest scanned the new titles for his favorite writers. Most stores allowed speakers to choose a free book for their efforts. Ah, a new book by Paul Auster!
Within minutes, his bookstore blues descended. Books everywhere, shrieking for attention on large display tables, shamelessly exhibiting their iridescent green and magenta jackets, heaped on the floor patiently awaiting shelving, spilling off tables, splashing onto the floor. Against the far wall of the store, great mounds of failed books glumly awaited return to their maker. Next to them stood unopened cartons of bright young volumes eager for their moment in the sun.
Ernest's heart went out to his little baby. What chance did it have in this ocean of books, one frail little spirit, swimming for its life?
He turned into the reading room, where fifteen rows of metal chairs had been unfolded. Here his Bereavement: Facts, Fads, and Fallacies was prominently displayed; several stacks, perhaps a total of sixty books, awaited signing and purchase next to the podium. Fine. Fine. But what about his book's future? What about two or three months hence? Perhaps one or two copies filed inconspicuously under L in the psychology or the self-help section. Six months hence? Vanished! "Available only on special order; should arrive in three to four weeks."
Ernest understood that no store had room enough to display all books, even those of great merit. At least, he could understand
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