David James Fisher
HOMAGE TO BETTELHEIM (1903-1990)
I came to know Bruno Bettelheim in the waning years of his life.
Many things separated us; many things united us. If I did not and could not
share his mother tongue, his classical education at the University of Vienna,
his age, his unique historical experiences, the Holocaust, his emigration to the
United States, and his singular work with severely disturbed children, I could
and did share with him an antifascism, a commitment to lay analysis, a fasci–
nation with psychoanalytic hermeneutics, a concern for grasping contempo–
rary history, and an interest in asking mordant questions.
There was a spirit of gravity about him, an intellectual seriousness and
an emotional depth, most ofwhich stemmed from the weight of his historical
consciousness - above all his memory of German fascism and the
concentration camps. I always found him to be courteous, formal in a Euro–
pean sense, a bit remote; yet there was always a compelling presence about
him, a personal dignity, a sparkle in his eyes, an ironic sense of humor, an in–
tolerance ofthe foolishness and stupidity of human beings, a capacity to be
self-deprecating and self-critical. His toughness was legendary; he also di–
rected the toughness toward himself, as evidenced by his remarkable work
discipline and by the prolific quality and quantity of his publications.
He frequently made a gesture of touching, almost massaging his head,
when he spoke; this was a man who clearly had a narcissistic investment in
the mind, and when he could no longer generate fresh and original ideas, he
no longer wished to live.
Bettelheim was depressed, often suicidally depressed. He spoke can–
didly, almost clinically, about his suicidal intentions.
It
became clear to me that
he had researched, thought through, and convinced himself that this was the
only courageous way out, the only dignified path for him at his stage in life.
He knew that he had completed his creative and scholarly work. He had
grown despondent after the illness and death of his wife in 1984, his com–
panion for over forty-three years. He was terribly bitter and resigned about
the rupture of his relations with his daughter, his hopes shattered after living
with her in Santa Monica. A mild stroke had disabled him, so that writing and
typing became major chores; it was sad to watch him labor over autograph–
ing copies of his books, which required a major expenditure of effort.
Bettelheim was a philosopher of psychoanalysis who spoke a fluent,
ordinary language that was not condescending to his audience. That language
resonated with a large, influential, international public because it touched
people in their profoundest depths; he targeted his writings to appeal to the
heart and intellect simultaneously. A finely trained European intellectual, he
