exam; they offered so many opposing viewpoints that the readers` state of mind

determined what they took from them. Now he read with a vastly different state of mind.

The presence of death prompted a different and more enlightened reading: in page after

page, he saw evidence of a pantheistic connectedness not previously appreciated.

However much Zarathustra extolled, even glorified solitude, however much he required

isolation in order to give birth to great thoughts, he was nonetheless committed to loving

and lifting others, to helping others perfect and transcend themselves, to sharing his

ripeness.Sharing his ripeness —that hit home.

ReturningZarathustra to its resting place, Julius sat in the dark staring at the lights

of cars crossing the Golden Gate Bridge and thinking about Nietzsche`s words. After a

few minutes Julius «came to»: he knew exactly what to do and how to spend his final

year.He would live just the way he had lived the previous year—and the year before that

and before that. He loved being a therapist; he loved connecting to others and helping to

bring something to life in them. Maybe his work was sublimation for his lost connection

to his wife; maybe he needed the applause, the affirmation and gratitude of those he

helped. Even so, even if dark motives played their role, he was grateful for his work. God

bless it!

Strolling over to his wall of file cabinets, Julius opened a drawer filled with charts and

audiotaped sessions of patients seen long ago. He stared at the names—each chart a

monument to a poignant human drama that had once played itself out in this very room.

As he surfed through the charts, most of the faces immediately sprang to mind. Others

had faded, but a few paragraphs of notes evoked their faces, too. A few were the truly

forgotten, their faces and stories lost forever.