(Not to be copied without author’s permission)

Three on a Couch

By Carl Djerassi

A play in 9 scenes

Carl Djerassi

Department of Chemistry

Stanford University

Stanford, CA 94305-5080

Tel. 650-723-2783

e-mail: djerassi@stanford.edu URL http://www.djerassi.com

1101 Green Street, Apt. 1501 25 Warrington Crescent,

San Francisco, CA 94109-2012 London W9 1ED, U.K.

Tel: 415-474-1825; Fax: 415-474-1868 Tel. 44-20-7289-3081

Cast of Characters

STEPHEN MARX, famous novelist, approximately 50 years old.

MIRIAM MARX, his wife, in her late thirties to early forties.

SHRINK (Dr. Theodore Hofmann), indeterminate middle aged.

Time: New York City, the present.

SHRINK’S consulting room. Desk and comfortable desk chair on the left, Freudian couch covered with oriental carpet in center with low, relatively long rectangular coffee table in front. Another comfortable chair behind head of couch; right upstage door is exit from consulting room.

SCENE 1.

Shrink's consulting room. STEPHEN MARX lies on couch, with SHRINK (with tie, coat, and perhaps even vest) sitting behind him. STEPHEN is silent for 1 - 2 minutes, long enough to make audience uncomfortable. The manner in which this handled (including STEPHEN’s opening speech) is left to the director and actor, with an optional scenario being the following: SHRINK occasionally glances at his watch and at STEPHEN on couch, who lies silently, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Occasionally, STEPHEN raises his head slightly as if he were listening to something. Suddenly he jumps up, follows the movement of a flying insect, snatching at the bug. Opens his hands, then drops them. Continues in the direction of Shrink and again claps his hand firmly—this time very close to Shrink’s face who rears back. STEPHEN opens his hands.

STEPHEN: Gotcha! (Goes back to couch and lies down).

SHRINK (Looking at his watch): I charge by the minute, you know… not by the word.

STEPHEN (After long pause): How much time have I left?

SHRINK (Again looks at watch): Six minutes… going on five. So, if there’s anything else…you’d…um…

STEPHEN: A question.

SHRINK: Hmm… progress.

STEPHEN: A legal question.

SHRINK: I don’t offer legal advice.

STEPHEN (Points with fingers toward Shrink, then to himself and back to Shrink): How confidential do you keep this?

SHRINK: If you went to church for confession, would you ask a priest that?

STEPHEN: I’m not here to confess. This is different.

SHRINK: Therapy and confession aren’t really that different. Call what usually happens here an unburdening.

STEPHEN: In that case I could’ve saved a bundle by going to see a priest.

SHRINK: Ah! But the difference is that we don’t absolve… we help you understand yourself. That takes much longer….

STEPHEN: And that’s what you charge for?

SHRINK: Well… if you’re looking for bargains… perhaps you should go to church… but lying on a couch is easier on your knees. (Pause). Just imagine how sore they would be after a full course of therapy. Right now, this is only your 4^th or 5^th session—

STEPHEN: Fifth!

SHRINK: And while you’d certainly benefit from therapy… by now it’s clear to me that you came with something else in mind: some kind of justification… but packaged in the form of a private confrontation.

STEPHEN: And why would I come to you for justification?

SHRINK: If I knew all of the answers, this would probably be your last visit. But you also appear to need assured confidentiality. You could have gotten that from a lawyer… but he would have charged more… and listened less.

STEPHEN (Impatiently): Okay, okay! But you tell no one what we talk about? No exceptions?

SHRINK: There are exceptions to everything. If you told me you had a gun in your pocket and were about to murder somebody, I’d call the police. I’d have to.

STEPHEN: What about suicide?

SHRINK: There is nothing I take more seriously than suicide.

STEPHEN: Suppose I told you I was thinking of killing myself?

SHRINK: I'd do my utmost to persuade you not to do that.

STEPHEN: Of course you would. But suppose you later learned that I'd actually done it?

SHRINK (Taking it very seriously): I’d feel terrible for not having prevented it. Personally… and professionally.

STEPHEN: But would you tell someone about the conversation?

SHRINK In none of our sessions so far has the word “suicide” even crossed your lips. Are you telling me now that you are contemplating—?

STEPHEN (Interrupts): Please! Just answer the question!

SHRINK (Impatient): I might… if you left a suicide note—

STEPHEN I thought confidentiality is an absolute term. There is no in-between situation.

SHRINK There is… when dealing with suicide. Suppose you asked that I contact a close survivor… for instance your wife? (Anxious). But Stephen—

STEPHEN (Interrupting): No note… nothing.

SHRINK: Then I probably would not.

STEPHEN: You’d keep mum?

SHRINK: Mum.

STEPHEN: Good. (Pause). In that case, let’s continue.

SHRINK (Looks at his watch): Given the sudden shift in direction of our conversation, we really need more time than we’ve got left today.

STEPHEN (Rises): Well… if our time’s up, I might as well take off.

Shrink beats Stephen to the door.

SHRINK: Be sure not to miss next week’s session.

STEPHEN: Rent coming due?

SHRINK: No jokes, Stephen. This is important.

The two men stare at each other. Finally Stephen smiles, patting Shrink on the shoulder.

STEPHEN: I’ll see whether I can convince myself of that.

Shrink reluctantly stands away from the door as Stephen exits.

SCENE 2.

Same location, following week. Exactly same position of the two characters as in Scene 1.

SHRINK: You aren’t really thinking of suicide?

STEPHEN (Breezily with a shift in tone): You… of all people… must be used to that sort of talk: Suicide… justification… interpretation of the uninterpretable… unburdening. Pay your money, pick a neurosis. I might even paraphrase Descartes: “I’m analyzing myself, therefore I am.”

SHRINK: Exactly! Analysis is the key to self-knowledge. At least that’s how I—

STEPHEN (Suddenly angry): Do you think I need to come here to find out who I am? I can do that for $9.99 down at Borders! (As if reading his own dust jacket spiel): Stephen Marx, author, misanthrope, genius, literary star, and winner of the Pulitzer Prize! National Book Award! blah blah blah. Voted Best Dressed Middle-Aged Man! Wearer of velvet jackets! Most Featured Writer in Women’s Magazines! Pick a tagline Dr Hoffman. Pick a blurb! Everyone else does! Stephen Marx: great author who will be remembered for generations to come? Or a smart con man who peddles phrases for money? Am I an original thinker? Or is it all an act so I can entice female groupies at book launches? Do you think therapy can answer these questions, Doctor?

SHRINK (Quietly): Yes.

STEPHEN (Taken aback) Doesn’t that smack of overconfidence?

SHRINK: No, it’s plain vanilla confidence. But it also assumes that the analysand is willing to cooperate… meaning you, Stephen.

STEPHEN So you’re hedging your answer.

SHRINK: An analyst is mostly a guide. It’s the analysand who ultimately must deduce his present circumstances from his past history. If you want to call it hedging, so be it. (Beat). But how did the idea of... suicide... come into your head?

STEPHEN: Everybody thinks of suicide… sometimes. (Pause). I even wrote about it.

SHRINK: An article?

STEPHEN: A novel... (dismissive). I don’t do articles. (Suddenly manic). Did you know that Hemingway read his own obituary?

SHRINK: No.

STEPHEN: He was in a small plane in the middle of Africa that crashed. Everyone thought he was dead. (Pause). But he blew it: he reappeared too soon.

SHRINK: Perhaps he needed medical attention.

STEPHEN: He had a marvelous time reading the newspaper obituaries. It was everything he wanted to hear. But what if he'd managed it better? (Leans forward, excited). If he’d waited?

SHRINK: All right, let’s take that question and apply it to you. How long would you have waited? (Raises his hand). No, let me rephrase it. Why would you’ve waited longer?

STEPHEN: Have you never dealt with people whose self-esteem depends on the opinion of others? Haven’t you ever stopped to think how it must feel to work in a field where success isn't something you can quantify? How much uncertainty that involves? How much insecurity? Even James Joyce was obsessed with reviews. I call it productive insecurity.

SHRINK: Well put!

STEPHEN (With irony) So now I’m getting complimented? Is that part of therapy?

SHRINK Call it encouragement rather than compliment.

STEPHEN (continues ironic tone) At this stage, I’ll accept either one. Unfortunately… compliment or not…productive insecurity simultaneously nourishes and poisons us.

SHRINK: Ah, yes! Scientists have that problem all the time… peer recognition is all that counts. But you… a hugely successful best-selling author? Of thirteen novels?

STEPHEN (Quickly): Fourteen!

SHRINK: All right… fourteen! But surely a writer’s success is based more on the opinion of the book-buying public. Reviewers and critics are not essential to make the best-seller lists.

STEPHEN: You’re confusing selling thousands of books for a couple of years followed by the oblivion of the remainder bins… with still being read decades later. I want the latter.

SHRINK: And you're talking about dying for it?

STEPHEN: Not in the sense that Roland Barthes meant.

SHRINK (Not having the foggiest idea who Barthes is): Who?

STEPHEN: French guy. Lived with his mother. Wrote “Death of the Author.” He said it was the text, not the author that counted.

SHRINK (Interested in Freudian sense, but still struggling to keep up): He lived with his mother?

STEPHEN: What do you do when you’ve gone as far as you can go? What can another novel tell me about myself that I don’t already know? What concerns me is (deliberate tone) whether I enter the canon.

SHRINK: Surely you can’t know that until it happens.

STEPHEN (Lying back on the couch): The opinion of real critics writing about my work in depth. The literary afterlife.

SHRINK (Looks at his watch). Now we’re getting to something we can work with.

STEPHEN: When you’re dead, you’re likely to learn things you’d never find out otherwise.

SHRINK: When you’re dead, you’re unlikely to enjoy it.

STEPHEN (Ignores Shrink’s comment): Stephen Marx has gone as far as he can go. Its time he’s put on the shelf to begin his grapple with history.

SHRINK: Then why not simply retire?

STEPHEN One can always come out of retirement.

SHRINK: You’re trying to control events that are simply beyond your control.

STEPHEN (Sits up): In order to live on in literary history, one first must be dead. Nothing improves the quality of a reputation better than death.

SHRINK Stephen! Just reflect for a moment: why did you tell me all this in the first place?

STEPHEN: Didn’t you tell me it was for justification?

SHRINK: That’s only part of it. Even if you don't know it yourself, Stephen, you want me to stop you.

(Stephen slowly sits down again.)

STEPHEN (A glimmer of humor in his eyes.): Okay. So why should Stephen Marx stay alive?

SHRINK: Surely you should be able to answer that yourself.

STEPHEN: I’ve already told you, my career has no meaning any more.

SHRINK: So you’re going to jump off a building?

STEPHEN (Slyly): No. I've always preferred the idea of drowning myself. (Eying the Shrink with irony). If you climb to the top of a building someone can always talk you down.

SHRINK: I don't believe you’ll do it. Suicide doesn’t go with your psyche.

STEPHEN: Is that your diagnosis?

SHRINK (Is pushed into saying something even he won’t believe he’s said): This is only our sixth session… generally much too short for a diagnosis. But with you, I’m prepared to risk it: yours is a case of pure, unadulterated narcissism… and that may be untreatable.

STEPHEN: Isn’t that your job? To shrink big heads like mine down to normal size?

SHRINK: Next week then?

Stephen heads for the door.

STEPHEN: We’ll see.

END OF SCENE 2

Scene 3.

One month later. SHRINK sits behind the couch. MIRIAM MARX lies on the couch. Through their discussion she will fidget about, stealing glances at the office and SHRINK.

MIRIAM I’m standing in a white room. Everywhere there are chrome saucepans shining in a harsh white light. I’m making a soufflé… and then I see him, his face, lifted in the egg white, with two yokes for eyes. Or I see him gasping for air in a… in a vat of… lobster bisque. Then he’s turned into a fish, deboned… all floppy, spent and moist, laid out on a bed of creamed spinach. (Pause). It's so horrible! If anyone found out, they’d have me committed.

SHRINK: Not necessarily. Just consider what dreaming in images of food might mean. Freud would say that food is a primal expression of your desire to consume your grief… to literally eat it so that it… no longer has the capacity to hurt you.

MIRIAM (Deadpan): I run a catering establishment.

SHRINK: I see.

MIRIAM (Suddenly composed): It’s called “Edible Art.” I'm also working on a book by that title.

SHRINK: And your artwork gets eaten?

MIRIAM: First photographed. It’s too expensive to be consumed without a record. Some customers even frame the photos. (Looking around her, while pointing at the barren walls of his office). I can arrange one for your office if you'd like. Something based on Chipirones en su Tinta might work well.

SHRINK: What?

MIRIAM: Squid in its ink. It’s a Basque dish. But I could use it on a bed of Tagliatelle and make it look like a Rorschach inkblot.

SHRINK: I think we’re getting off on a tangent… not that I don’t appreciate your offer to improve the appearance of my office. But let’s return to your thoughts about your deceased husband.

MIRIAM: You are so right… I shouldn’t digress. Sometimes when I think of what he went through, I… I… It sounds terrible but I chuckle. I can’t help myself doctor. To chuckle at the death throes of your husband. Is that… normal?

SHRINK: Normal is not a word we use here. Call it a denial of guilt or a failure to come to terms with a huge loss.

MIRIAM: Any death is a loss, huge or not.

SHRINK: Of course… (Pause).

MIRIAM (Fidgets before continuing): I need to admit that what I wanted to talk to you about doesn't really concern me as a patient, as such.

SHRINK Everything that is brought up here does, in fact, concern the patient. Sometimes, a surrogate is used as an excuse—

MIRIAM I don’t really know where to start.

SHRINK: Don’t worry… just let it happen. Do you want to start talking about your husband?

MIRIAM: For one, we had been talking about divorce. But we only talked… for months on end, without taking the next step.

SHRINK Whose initiative was the idea of divorce?

MIRIAM: Mine.

SHRINK: Would you care to talk about the reasons?

MIRIAM: Why not? Now, it’s irrevocable history.

SHRINK Nothing… other than death… is irrevocable.

MIRIAN (Ironic) Is that so? (Beat). My husband was a writer. At one time, I thought his writing was wondrously clever… turning phrases inside out, upside down, back to front. I felt like his partner. I critiqued his first drafts… I typed the final ones… I was part of the creative process… or so I thought. And I considered the money his writing earned our money. But as his success brought in some real dough, he decided to get what he called a “writing pad” elsewhere. He showed me fewer and fewer drafts… and eventually just the completed manuscripts. That’s when I started reading his books from the outside… like any other curious reader.

SHRINK: Meaning?

MIRIAM: Looking for hidden autobiographical details.

SHRINK: That must have been a difficult adjustment.

MIRIAM: Living with a writer isn’t easy. (Beat). Have you ever heard about Fernando Pessoa?

SHRINK Doesn’t ring a bell.

MIRIAM: My husband had introduced me to Pessoa’s poetry years ago and for a while, even I was hooked, but he then became obsessed with Pessoa’s heteronomy ideas. Do you know what that is?

SHRINK Not exactly.

MIRIAM: Writing as different authors with different personalities and styles… not just under a different name. I took it as a special form of intellectual polygamy from which I was automatically excluded. It got so that when he was working on a book, I felt I had become a discarded wife living with a stranger. That’s when I became jealous of his inner life.

SHRINK: Jealousy is man’s most common burden. We all show it in one way or another.

MIRIAM: I thought that any jealousy of mine was solely related to my sense of autonomy.

SHRINK: Could you expand on that?

MIRIAM: After my husband started to write elsewhere, I was stuck in the house with time on my hands but none of my own income. Then, when I became financially independent through my booming catering business, it dawned on me that time without money is worth much less than money without time. Suddenly, I had very little spare time, but I wanted that to be quality time. That’s when I realized how little quality was left in our relationship…

(Long pause)

I’ve been going through my husband’s papers… his files. How does one go on with one’s life when the days are filled with endless reminders of a dead man’s existence? When I think about the end… how he must have struggled in the water... fighting to break the surface… gasping for air….

SHRINK: Sorry… Mrs. Engels, how did your husband die?

Miriam turns to look at Shrink. She turns away, uncomfortable now.

MIRIAM: He drowned.

SHRINK: Drowned? How?

MIRIAM: In a sailing accident. He should never have gone out in that weather.

SHRINK: This was when?