If the truth be known, I am only a partially reformed idealist. In the
secret depths of my soul, I still wish to make the world a better place
and sometimes fantasize about heroically eradicating its faults. When I
encounter its limitations, it is consequently with deep regret and
continued surprise. How, I ask myself, is it possible that that which
seems so fight can be a chimera? And why, I wonder, aren't people as
courageous, smart, or nice as I would like? The pain of realizing these
things is sometimes so intense that I want to close my eyes and lose
myself in the kinds of daydreams that comforted me as a youngster. One
thing is clear, my need to come to grips with my idealism had its origin
in a lifetime of naivet6. From the beginning, I wanted to be a "good"
person. Often when life was most treacherous, I retreated into a comer
from whence I escaped into reveries of moral glory. When I was very
young, my faith was in religion. In Hebrew school, I took my lessons
seriously and tried to apply them at home. By my teen years, this had
been replaced by an allegiance to socialism. In the Brooklyn where I
grew up, my teachers and relatives made this seem the natural course.
When I reached my twenties, however, and was obliged to confront a
series of personal deficiencies, psychotherapy shouldered its way to the
fore.