Astonished by this ridiculous prospect, I asked how they even knew he had returned. Someone pointed out that it had already been picked up by the media, including one of the national news programs. I wondered whether Klaus himself had anything to do with that.
The discussion ended without resolution. Some, like me, thought it preposterous to let one of our patients be interviewed on television. Others, noting that prot was unique in all the world and that he would undoubtedly be able to hold his own with any interviewer, weren’t so sure. Though we could certainly use the money, I thought we were opening another can of worms. I pointed out that we had a lot of bizarre and interesting cases at the hospital, so why not a whole TV series based on their individual stories? Villers, missing the irony of my remark, seemed quite enthusiastic. I could almost see dollar signs in his eyes, which lit up like shooting stars as he contemplated the potential windfall.
Virginia caught me after the meeting. She wanted to know whether prot might be willing to schedule a look at a couple of her other patients. She wasn’t jokingGoldfarb never jokes. I assured her I would speak to him about the matter.
If I have more than cottage cheese and crackers for lunch I have a hard time staying awake the rest of the afternoon. I watched in envy as Villers put away a huge plate of roast beef, various kinds of vegetables, buttered rolls, and pie. He said very little as he gobbled down his food, and left as soon as he was finished, dots of gravy and piecrust flecking his goatee. As I watched him go, I thought: I don’t know much about this man, who keeps his personal life to himself, but I’d know those drooping shoulders anywhere.
Klaus Villers is a paradox of the highest order. He exemplifies, I suppose, the public image of the typical psychiatristcold, decisive, analytical. Nothing appears to faze him. I have never seen the slightest hint of shock or amusement on his weather-beaten countenance, rarely sensed even the slightest emotion. Yet, for all his gruffess of character and outspoken opinions he can be soft as an oyster inside.
Perhaps the best example of this is the case of a former patient whom Klaus was powerless to help (a not infrequent situation at MPI). The man, a hopeless manic depressive from a poor family, was so fond of his doctor, for reasons of his own, that he carved several beautiful little birds for Klaus and his wife. When the man died, our “heartless” director, who barely found time or inclination to thank the man for his gifts, paid for his interment out of his own pocket, erecting a huge marker for “The Bird-man of MPI. ” No one knows why he did this, but I choose to believe that he simply felt sorry for a long-suffering patient he could do nothing for.
Klaus emigrated with his family to America from Austria more than fifty years ago. Born in 1930, he grew up during the years preceding World War II. His awareness of the atrocities going on around him may have been a factor in his decision to become a doctor, but this is pure speculation on my part. I don’t even know how he met his wife Emma.
For all his intelligence he still maintains a thick German accent and, unbelievably, his wife speaks almost no English at all. Extremely introverted, she virtually never leaves their secluded home on Long Island, tending to her garden and homemaking for herself and her husband. They rarely attend extramural functions or, even after he became director in 1990, invite anyone to their lovely home (I was there only once, years ago). Apparently they see no need for social contacts, finding everything they need in each other. As far as I know they have no children.
Their only hobby is hiking. They have walked the Appalachian Trail many times, once or twice with the late Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, who apparently didn’t have many friends either. As a result, Klaus knows every species of bird in eastern North
The discussion ended without resolution. Some, like me, thought it preposterous to let one of our patients be interviewed on television. Others, noting that prot was unique in all the world and that he would undoubtedly be able to hold his own with any interviewer, weren’t so sure. Though we could certainly use the money, I thought we were opening another can of worms. I pointed out that we had a lot of bizarre and interesting cases at the hospital, so why not a whole TV series based on their individual stories? Villers, missing the irony of my remark, seemed quite enthusiastic. I could almost see dollar signs in his eyes, which lit up like shooting stars as he contemplated the potential windfall.
Virginia caught me after the meeting. She wanted to know whether prot might be willing to schedule a look at a couple of her other patients. She wasn’t jokingGoldfarb never jokes. I assured her I would speak to him about the matter.
If I have more than cottage cheese and crackers for lunch I have a hard time staying awake the rest of the afternoon. I watched in envy as Villers put away a huge plate of roast beef, various kinds of vegetables, buttered rolls, and pie. He said very little as he gobbled down his food, and left as soon as he was finished, dots of gravy and piecrust flecking his goatee. As I watched him go, I thought: I don’t know much about this man, who keeps his personal life to himself, but I’d know those drooping shoulders anywhere.
Klaus Villers is a paradox of the highest order. He exemplifies, I suppose, the public image of the typical psychiatristcold, decisive, analytical. Nothing appears to faze him. I have never seen the slightest hint of shock or amusement on his weather-beaten countenance, rarely sensed even the slightest emotion. Yet, for all his gruffess of character and outspoken opinions he can be soft as an oyster inside.
Perhaps the best example of this is the case of a former patient whom Klaus was powerless to help (a not infrequent situation at MPI). The man, a hopeless manic depressive from a poor family, was so fond of his doctor, for reasons of his own, that he carved several beautiful little birds for Klaus and his wife. When the man died, our “heartless” director, who barely found time or inclination to thank the man for his gifts, paid for his interment out of his own pocket, erecting a huge marker for “The Bird-man of MPI. ” No one knows why he did this, but I choose to believe that he simply felt sorry for a long-suffering patient he could do nothing for.
Klaus emigrated with his family to America from Austria more than fifty years ago. Born in 1930, he grew up during the years preceding World War II. His awareness of the atrocities going on around him may have been a factor in his decision to become a doctor, but this is pure speculation on my part. I don’t even know how he met his wife Emma.
For all his intelligence he still maintains a thick German accent and, unbelievably, his wife speaks almost no English at all. Extremely introverted, she virtually never leaves their secluded home on Long Island, tending to her garden and homemaking for herself and her husband. They rarely attend extramural functions or, even after he became director in 1990, invite anyone to their lovely home (I was there only once, years ago). Apparently they see no need for social contacts, finding everything they need in each other. As far as I know they have no children.
Their only hobby is hiking. They have walked the Appalachian Trail many times, once or twice with the late Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas, who apparently didn’t have many friends either. As a result, Klaus knows every species of bird in eastern North
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