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Time-­Limited Existential Therapy
Time-­Limited Existential Therapy

The Wheel of Existence

Second Edition

Alison Strasser
With Freddie Strasser
This second edition first published 2022
© 2022 John Wiley & Sons Ltd
Edition History
John Wiley & Sons Ltd (1e, 1997)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
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The right of Alison Strasser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with law.
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John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, USA
John Wiley & Sons Ltd, The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK
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The contents of this work are intended to further general scientific research, understanding, and discussion
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Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data
Names: Strasser, Alison, author. | Strasser, Freddie, author.
Title: Time-limited existential therapy : the wheel of existence / Alison
Strasser with Freddie Strasser
Other titles: Existential time-limited therapy.
Description: Second edition. | Hoboken, NJ : Wiley-Blackwell, 2022. |
Revision of: Existential time-limited therapy / Freddie Strasser and
Alison Strasser. 1997. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021043976 (print) | LCCN 2021043977 (ebook) | ISBN
9781118713716 (paperback) | ISBN 9781118713686 (adobe pdf) | ISBN
9781118713709 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Existential psychotherapy. | Brief psychotherapy.
Classification: LCC RC489.E93 S77 2022(print) | LCC RC489.E93(ebook) |
DDC 616.89/147–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021043976
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021043977
Cover Design: Wiley
Cover Image: © Dody Strasser, RBA
Set in 9.5/12.5pt STIXTwoText by Straive, Pondicherry, India

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Freddie Strasser (1924–2008)

This book is dedicated to my dad, Freddie Strasser, whose wisdom, innovation, and
vision, whose passion for the time-­limited modular approach, and whose appetite
for wheels of every description laid the foundational ideas upon which this book
is based.
Thank you for remaining steadfastly by my side as this second edition took shape
and for your unswerving belief.
Your Hungarian charm and infectious smile will continue to ripple in all those
who have been touched by your irrepressible spirit.
 vii

Contents

Foreword ix
Preface xi
Acknowledgements xvii
About the Author xviii

Part I 1

1 Existential and Phenomonological Philosophies and the Wheel

of Existence 3

2 Core of the Wheel: Time and Self 14

3 Time in Therapy: The Principal Concepts of Existential Time-­Limited

Therapy 20

4 Approaches to Time-­Limited Therapy 30

Part II 39

Layers and Leaves: Ontologicals and Ontics 41

The Ontological Layer: Universalising 43

5 The Ontological ‘Givens’ 44

Stepping Through the Ontic Leaves: Individualising 54

viii Contents

6 Working with The Phenomenological Process 56

7 Establishing Safety 73

8 Discovering Anxiety 81

9 Revealing the Relationship 93

10 Exploring the Four Worlds 104

11 Clarifying the Worldview 112

12 Working with Paradox and Polarities 123

13 Identifying Choices and Meaning 132

14 Integrating Mind and Body 141

15 Understanding Authenticity 147

Afterword: COVID-­19 156

References 162

Index 168
 ix

Foreword

All therapy, de facto, is time limited and has a beginning and an end. In this it is
very much like human existence. The more we allow ourselves to be aware of the
limits of life, the defter we get at using the space and time available to us. It is like
this with therapy too: the more we approach it with awareness of its limits and
boundaries, the sharper becomes its lens, allowing us to throw a clear light on a
person’s difficulties whilst illuminating their possibilities. Time, here too, is of the
essence, as it leads us naturally from our memory-­laden past, through our present
predicaments, towards a future purpose and destination. Throughout the pages of
this book our journey in time points the way towards progress, meaning, and
understanding.
When Freddie Strasser and his daughter Alison Strasser co-­authored their book
on time-­limited therapy at the end of the 1990s, they had both relatively recently
completed their existential training (with me), but had already shown themselves
to be prime contributors to the existential approach. In that earlier book I recog-
nised many of the ingredients I had introduced them to, though they had been
mixed and prepared in a new way, providing a fresh and original take on existen-
tial therapy that foregrounded the important theme of the time-­limited nature of
our profession.
In this new volume, Alison Strasser has remixed the themes, elegantly updating
her vision of time-­limited work, displaying her maturity of thought and her pro-
fessionalism. Here we find a broader spectrum, a more coherent narrative, and a
much more sure-­footed account of time-­limited existential therapy. This is now a
clear and carefully worked out guide demonstrating to existential therapists how
they can concretely apply these ideas to their everyday practice with their clients.
This is a book by a seasoned and talented therapist, who has not only seen hun-
dreds of clients over the intervening decades, but who has created a thriving exis-
tential training institute of her own, in Sydney, Australia, and who has taught and
supervised many hundreds of trainees over the years.
x Foreword

The experience jumps off the page and is continuously in evidence through the
intertwining of theoretical concepts and practical application. There are many
vignettes, whose storylines are engaging whilst highlighting the points that mat-
ter. There are great summaries of relevant philosophical ideas and of salient
practitioners’ work. There are also plenty of original contributions, culminating
in a brand-­new ‘wheel of existence’, which will speak to existential therapists
worldwide.
Alison Strasser has boldly taken up the challenge of revising and reviving a
highly successful book, which she wrote together with her late father. Having had
the immense pleasure of knowing and working with Freddie Strasser myself, I
have no doubt that he would have smiled proudly upon this feat of daughterly
pluck and accomplishment. The book will give his own reputation a new lease of
life, thus cheating time and death itself in the nicest possible way. Many new read-
ers will now benefit from their joint ideas, and previous readers will note how
these ideas have thrived and blossomed, through Alison’s work, over the years.
The book is a true testimony to the ripening of life with the passing of time. It will
be appreciated on many continents.

Emmy van Deurzen

 xi

Preface

The only man who behaved sensibly was my tailor: he took my measure anew
every time he saw me, while all the rest went on with their old measurements
and expected them to fit me.
George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman (1905)

The first edition of this book, Existential Time Limited Therapy: The Wheel of
Existence (Strasser & Strasser, 1997), co-­authored by my father, Freddie Strasser,
and me, paved a pathway to describing how existential therapy offers an effective
approach to brief therapy where ‘it was the certainty of the ending that was identi-
fied as the most influential distinguishing factor’ (Lamont, 2012, p. 172). We pro-
posed that time itself is the ‘tool’ that facilitates awareness and the potential
for change.
One of the original aims of the first edition was to convey existential philosophy
as a vehicle for common sense. Neither my father nor I saw ourselves as experts in
existential philosophy; however, we were both stimulated by how the integration
of existential and phenomenological philosophies added alternative perspectives
and ways of understanding people that related to their concrete living in the world
rather than being limited to a psychological perspective. As is probably true for
most existential practitioners, we saw ourselves as existential-­oriented therapists,
signifying that we are informed by numerous ideas and approaches that build on
our own personal experiences.
In the first edition, we presented the modular approach where the client was
offered 12 sessions with the first 10 sessions as consecutive and the final 2 sessions
spread a month apart. A subsequent module of 12 sessions could be discussed and
implemented depending on the client’s particular circumstances. Indeed, the dis-
cussion itself about continuing or not is one of the hidden gems of this approach
in that some clients are adamant about wishing to continue or not. Such responses
tend to relate to, and reveal, clients’ attitudes towards themselves and to relation-
ships in general.
xii Preface

In conjunction with the development of the time-­limited modular approach,

the first edition introduced two Wheels of Existence: Structure and Process
wheels. This was a novel way of understanding existential philosophy and brought
to existential psychotherapy a structure, albeit fluid, to delineate the aspects of
existential theory and its application to psychotherapy practice. Since existential
philosophy is not used overtly with clients but creates the backdrop or framework
to inform how the therapist listens, how questions are framed, and how infer-
ences and connections are drawn, the wheels provided an interrelational map.
The various components provide a schema for understanding how the different
elements of existential philosophy are integrated into the whole experience.
In the years following the publication of the first edition, my father and I lived
in different countries, followed different pathways, and diverged in our interests
but still continued with our weekly conversations. I began exploring supervision
and devised a wheel to encompass the existential ideas that emerged from my
doctoral research. My father became fascinated with mediation and also created a
series of wheels to further enhance his ideas and to show the existential connec-
tions retained in this mediation framework. He developed the ideas along with
Paul Randolph (a barrister) into the Alternative Dispute Resolution. Interestingly,
although two wheels were introduced in the first edition, very soon only one
wheel emerged in each of our individual work.
In 2007, when writing a presentation for the Australasian Existential Society,
my father and I developed yet another version of the wheel that united our ideas
combining our developing thoughts. And we realised that veiled within the origi-
nal text was the germ of an idea that, as life is time limited, similarly every psycho-
therapy session, every group of sessions however contracted, has its limitations of
time (Strasser & Strasser, 1997, p. 4). This we understood as reflective of the need
to be time aware, irrespective of modality or length of sessions. We had every
intention of developing these ideas further into a second edition of time-­limited
therapy.
However, the time-­limited nature of life assaulted my own sense of certainty
and predictability with the unexpected and untimely death of my father, forcing
me to confront the finitude of his life, taking the wind out of my sails, and leaving
me to honour the legacy and continue our work.
When, some years later, Emmy van Deurzen proposed the idea of my writing
the second edition on my own, I felt excited to continue my father’s work. I had
accessed his ideas about paradox on his computer and discovered some of his case
studies. I knew how we would have written this book together, as we had done
previously. I would now write to honour his work; I would write as a tribute to him.
Several months on, however, I was still struggling to gather my thoughts and
put together any words related to time-­limited therapy. I was derailed by my wish
to write my own thoughts, worried that I’d be unable to do so on my own and
 Preface xiii

fearing offending the existential community. Without my father there was no

buffer, and yet I wanted to have my voice heard; I was stuck in my own paradox.
This struggle continued until one of my friends insightfully asked me why I was
writing. I realised that my intentions were more duty bound than personally moti-
vated. It seemed that my attempts at writing had been in ‘bad faith’.i Of course I’d
be finding it hard!
This has not been an easy journey. In time, I began to appreciate that, as the
Bible claims, ‘What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun’ (Ecclesiastes 1:9), that no ideas are new, only
that our understanding of concepts evolves with our experiences and our ability
to challenge and experiment with them. Even if I present what I believe are new
ideas in this book, they have evolved from what has been co-­created with others,
from my many and varied teachers, mentors, colleagues, friends, adversaries, and,
of course, my father.
Since the publication of first edition, many other authors and existential practi-
tioners have written about their work and their understanding and integration of
existential philosophy. There is a second and possibly even third generation of writ-
ers that are widening and also integrating other frameworks and modalities into the
space of existential practice. There is the focusing world of Eugene Gendlin (1978)
as integrated by such authors as Greg Madison (2010); the Buddhist mindfulness
approach as integrated by such authors as Khong (2013) and Nanda (2009); the con-
tinuation of Frankl’s (1963) logotherapy with the work of Alfred Längle ( 2015); as
well as the humanists such as Kirk Schneider (Schneider & Krug, 2010) and Mick
Cooper (Cooper & Mearns, 2005) who have shown how the humanistic tradition is
also existential in nature. Research shows that existential therapy is as valid an
approach as any other therapy (Correia, Cooper, & Berdondini, 2014). There is a
group of therapists, the New Existentialists (Hoffman, 2015), who no longer adhere
to the ‘doom and gloom’ perspective that is often associated with French existential-
ist writing, focusing instead on a positive interpretation of the philosophy and its
application. Indeed, we now read about joy and hope, meaning and purpose as an
existential tension to their opposites of sadness and despair, meaninglessness and
aloneness and about how we can live our life more fully through self-­examination
and taking more responsibility for our life journey. And my own perspective contin-
ues to shift and modify as I undertake further reading, add my own daily experience
of working with clients, supervisees, students, colleagues, and am challenged and
inspired by the vagaries of life in all its complexities.
I returned to writing this second edition, deciding to put my father firmly up ‘in
the attic’ and to give myself the option of choosing consciously when and how to
invite him in.
Simultaneously, I realised that my compulsion to complete this task on my own
was driven my childhood determination to prove my worth; this contributed to
xiv Preface

my stuckness. By staying with the anxiety of my stuckness, I began to understand

that to ask for help was not a negation of my independence but potentially a shift
towards something new and exciting. And so I chose to ask for help. Jo Silbert has
been a friend and fellow therapist for many years. Through her love of language,
she shifted into writing and editing articles and books on psychotherapy. With her
help, this second edition began to take shape.
My first decision was to consolidate the two Wheels of Existence into one wheel.
This new wheel combines the ideas from the original wheels and simultaneously
allows for the integration of the philosophical ideas and the essential processes
involved in existential practice. Broadly, the Wheel in this edition brings together
the concept that our practice is phenomenological while maintaining the existen-
tial philosophy as the backdrop that informs our listening, questions, and
reflections.
In this second edition, I will expand on the concept of time-­aware therapy to
reveal that all therapy can be viewed as time limited and discuss the various pos-
sibilities of using a time-­aware approach in practice to reveal how time can be
used as an effective stratagem to enhance and highlight some of the existential
human concerns. So, while the modular approach still remains valid, its ideas are
transferable to all therapies.
Therapy as time limited fits snugly into an existential perspective in that, in its
very essence, therapy mirrors life in all its openings and closures, beginnings and
endings, with its final culmination in death. These beginnings and endings of life
range from the small and everyday – our waking up in the morning and going to
sleep at night, starting and finishing a new project, beginning a new friendship
and saying goodbye to others – to the more significant beginning of our birth and
ending of our death. We are all being carried forward towards death, a being-­unto-­
death as described by Heidegger (1962). The manner of our approach to how we
tackle or manage these beginnings, endings, openings and closures in therapy can
mimic how we negotiate life. Hence, the significance of time is tangible in every
session.
Time is also implicit in therapy, though usually unspoken, unless either the cli-
ent or therapist is taking a break, or the end of therapy is nigh. There are numer-
ous theories and approaches to addressing and grasping the meaning of breaks;
yet working explicitly with temporality as an existential given gives a richness to
time in all its complexity for both the therapist and client to work with.
I tend to work with clients with no fixed end to their therapy, or what is usually
defined as open-­ended. This is partly due to my original training and also my own
preference for working with clients over a longer period. The relationship that is
at the crux of existential therapy ebbs and flow over a longer period and builds on
an in-­depthness that doesn’t always have time to develop within the brief therapy
scenario. I build in an ending process so that when it is time for the client to finish,
 Preface xv

we negotiate a series of sessions before the final closure. This manner of ending
brings out many of the advantages of the time-­limited modular approach and the
benefits for some clients of working over a longer time period. Later, I discovered
that this was similar to Otto Rank’s (1929) concept of time-­limited therapy that I
shall return to in Chapter 3. As so cogently described by a supervisee who closed
her practice using this ‘time-­aware and time-­limited’ approach, ‘working with the
ending was like a dream come true; my clients took up their own baton and truly
worked in earnest’.
Yalom (2008) writes about explicitly alluding to death in every session; I pro-
pose that our relationship to time is an expansive way of calling attention to end-
ings that might include our relationship to our physical death but is inclusive of
all the other beginnings and endings that occur in life. Every session has a start
and finish, every day has its morning and night, every job has an induction and
termination, and all relationships begin and end. By calling attention to this real-
ity, it allows for the possibility of working with all the intrinsic anxieties, para-
doxes, and vulnerabilities highlighted in the modular approach explored in the
first edition.
The proposal to bring time-­limited awareness to all therapy is about recognising
that contextual working situations are diverse, that our circumstances differ, and
that, as therapists, we have personal preferences. My work as a supervisor has
privileged me with insights into the gamut of the many and varied circumstances,
contexts and experiences of my supervisees: therapists and supervisors in private
practice; practitioners that work in agencies with a fixed number of client sessions
varying from 6 weeks to 6 months; those that permit additional sessions; those
that require clients to be referred elsewhere after the maximum sessions are com-
plete. These insights have highlighted how we all need to find our own path, our
own voice as therapists. Working with the idea of time and its limitations has its
own flexibility and can be used and worked with as seen fit and appropriate by
each individual.
In some obvious, some subtle ways, this second edition was in its conception –
both during and as soon as the first edition was put to bed – reflecting the notion
that speaks directly to one of the existential ideas that time is in constant flow
with no beginning or ending. This might appear to be in direct opposition to time-­
limited therapy which honours the idea that time is limited, thus highlighting
another existential ‘given’ that life is peppered with paradoxes. This second edi-
tion is an opportunity to extend the original ideas around time in therapy to
include a broader spectrum of practitioners and clients. There are many advan-
tages to shorter-­term therapy and there are other benefits to working in a more
long-­term way. The requirements of the client, the orientation of the therapist or
the specific agency rules are all taken into account when contracting with the cli-
ent. In all of these circumstances, understanding and working with time as an
xvi Preface

explicit theme can alter the flavour of the therapy. Case studies and client vignettes
will be used throughout the book to illustrate and to breathe life into what is often
turgid or difficult language to understand. This edition includes new case studies
and vignettes as well as those from the original book, namely, ‘Lynn’, one of the
studies written by my father which was pivotal in the development of the time-­
limited modular approach. In this second edition, all of the other case studies are
composites and representative of being human.
Much has changed since our writing of the first edition, including my under-
standing and working definition of time-­limited therapy. My own practice as a
therapist, supervisor, coach, and trainer continues to inform my understanding
and interpretation of existential philosophy. I am indebted to my clients, supervi-
sees, and colleagues for the questions they ask and their inherent courage to ques-
tion not only themselves but me in any of these roles and positions.
The second edition is written to be inclusive of many of the ideas that were
important to my father. I decided to use the pronoun ‘I’ rather than define which
ideas and client stories were his and which were mine. This decision was part of
my personal process of finding my voice and recognising my father’s influence.
Finally, as my father had, and still has, enormous influence on who I have
become and on the way I think and experience life, this second edition honours
both his contribution to the world of existential practice as a therapist, coach, and
mediator and the immense impact he had on defining the modular time-­limited
approach. His framework still works and continues to be enormously useful.

Note
i A term used by Jean Paul Sartre (1958) to describe a form of self-deception and
avoidance of one’s freedom.
 xvii

Acknowledgements

I’m deeply grateful to my sisters Carolyn and Yvonne, to my step-daughter Sacha

Woodburn, to all my family, friends and colleagues who have supported me in my
much longer than anticipated journey in completing this second edition.
I have travelled around the world, sat at many kitchen tables with my trusted
laptop and both written, revised, and conversed with my wonderful friends and
family; in particular, the tables I remember with warmth are with Nari and Lucia
Ghandhi in London, Frank and Sara Megginson in Monaco and other beautiful
settings, Peggy Hankey in Seyssel, France, Sal Flynn in Byron Bay, Margalit Barnea
in Portugal, Jo and Alex Fok in Tasmania, and Annie Buchner in our COVID-­
bound holidays in New South Wales, Australia, and a big thank you to Leanda
Elliott and Joyce Morgan for their wise counsel and unswerving friendship.
I thank my colleagues who never erred from the firm belief that I would finally
hand in the manuscript. In particular, Emmy van Deurzen, Ernesto Spinelli, Greg
Madison in the UK and, closer to home, Adam McLean and Lyn Gamwell.
And I thank all my clients and supervisees who inadvertently provided the
backdrop and clarity to the existential themes that I was writing about, including
their myriad of responses to time, and to Maria Clark for sharing her time and her
rich case studies for inclusion in this book.
I acknowledge the calm and insightful support of Jo Silbert who stepped in after
the first draft as my editor and mentor; together we cut and dissected chapters,
pages, and ideas and shaped them into the current coherent creation.
Finally, my thanks go to my husband Rob Woodburn who was a surreptitious
existential thinker, only revealing later in our relationship that he had studied
existential philosophy as an undergraduate. As a writer, he patiently read and
edited the first draft of this book, asking awkward but poignant and useful ques-
tions. The two most significant men in my life, Rob and my father, Freddy both
died within 10 years of each other, handing over the baton to my humble and
nervous hands.
xviii

About the Author

Alison Strasser DProf (Psychotherapy & Counselling), MA, BA Hons

Alison is a practising psychotherapist, coach, and supervisor. She is also an educa-

tor with a passion for imparting how existential themes can be integrated into
every therapeutic approach. She was instrumental in creating the existential cur-
riculum for many counselling and psychotherapy trainings in Australia and
founded Centre for Existential Practice in 2008. Her doctorate focused on the pro-
cess of supervision, work that led to a framework for supervisor training, now a
major component of CEP’s annual programme.
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The hounds of
Tindalos
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The hounds of Tindalos

Author: Frank Belknap Long

Illustrator: C. C. Senf

Release date: May 8, 2024 [eBook #73575]

Language: English

Original publication: Indianapolois, IN: Popular Fiction Publishing

Company, 1929

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUNDS OF

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The HOUNDS of TINDALOS

By Frank Belknap Long, Jr.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Weird Tales March 1929.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"I'm glad you came," said Chalmers. He was sitting by the window
and his face was very pale. Two tall candles guttered at his elbow
and cast a sickly amber light over his long nose and slightly receding
chin. Chalmers would have nothing modern about his apartment. He
had the soul of a mediæval ascetic, and he preferred illuminated
manuscripts to automobiles and leering stone gargoyles to radios and
adding-machines.
As I crossed the room to the settee he had cleared for me I glanced
at his desk and was surprized to discover that he had been studying
the mathematical formulæ of a celebrated contemporary physicist,
and that he had covered many sheets of thin yellow paper with
curious geometric designs.
"Einstein and John Dee are strange bedfellows," I said as my gaze
wandered from his mathematical charts to the sixty or seventy quaint
books that comprised his strange little library. Plotinus and Emanuel
Moscopulus, St. Thomas Aquinas and Frenicle de Bessy stood elbow
to elbow in the somber ebony bookcase, and chairs, table and desk
were littered with pamphlets about mediæval sorcery and witchcraft
and black magic, and all of the valiant glamorous things that the
modern world has repudiated.
Chalmers smiled engagingly, and passed me a Russian cigarette on a
curiously carved tray. "We are just discovering now," he said, "that
the old alchemists and sorcerers were two-thirds right, and that your
modern biologist and materialist is nine-tenths wrong."
"You have always scoffed at modern science," I said, a little
impatiently.
"Only at scientific dogmatism," he replied. "I have always been a
rebel, a champion of originality and lost causes; that is why I have
chosen to repudiate the conclusions of contemporary biologists."
"And Einstein?" I asked.
"A priest of transcendental mathematics!" he murmured reverently.
"A profound mystic and explorer of the great suspected."
"Then you do not entirely despise science."
"Of course not," he affirmed. "I merely distrust the scientific
positivism of the past fifty years, the positivism of Haeckel and
Darwin and of Mr. Bertrand Russell. I believe that biology has failed
pitifully to explain the mystery of man's origin and destiny."
"Give them time," I retorted.
Chalmers' eyes glowed. "My friend," he murmured, "your pun is
sublime. Give them time. That is precisely what I would do. But your
modern biologist scoffs at time. He has the key but he refuses to use
it. What do we know of time, really? Einstein believes that it is
relative, that it can be interpreted in terms of space, of curved space.
But must we stop there? When mathematics fails us can we not
advance by—insight?"
"You are treading on dangerous ground," I replied. "That is a pit-fall
that your true investigator avoids. That is why modern science has
advanced so slowly. It accepts nothing that it can not demonstrate.
But you——"
"I would take hashish, opium, all manner of drugs. I would emulate
the sages of the East. And then perhaps I would apprehend——"
"What?"
"The fourth dimension."
"Theosophical rubbish!"
"Perhaps. But I believe that drugs expand human consciousness.
William James agreed with me. And I have discovered a new one."
"A new drug?"
"It was used centuries ago by Chinese alchemists, but it is virtually
unknown in the West. Its occult properties are amazing. With its aid
and the aid of my mathematical knowledge I believe that I can go
back through time."
"I do not understand."
"Time is merely our imperfect perception of a new dimension of
space. Time and motion are both illusions. Everything that has
existed from the beginning of the world exists now. Events that
occurred centuries ago on this planet continue to exist in another
dimension of space. Events that will occur centuries from now exist
already. We can not perceive their existence because we can not
enter the dimension of space that contains them. Human beings as
we know them are merely fractions, infinitesimally small fractions of
one enormous whole. Every human being is linked with all the life
that has preceded him on this planet. All of his ancestors are parts of
him. Only time separates him from his forebears, and time is an
illusion and does not exist."
"I think I understand," I murmured.
"It will be sufficient for my purpose if you can form a vague idea of
what I wish to achieve. I wish to strip from my eyes the veils of
illusion that time has thrown over them, and see the beginning and
the end."
"And you think this new drug will help you?"
"I am sure that it will. And I want you to help me. I intend to take
the drug immediately. I can not wait. I must see." His eyes glittered
strangely. "I am going back, back through time."
He rose and strode to the mantel. When he faced me again he was
holding a small square box in the palm of his hand. "I have here five
pellets of the drug Liao. It was used by the Chinese philosopher Lao
Tze, and while under its influence he visioned Tao. Tao is the most
mysterious force in the world; it surrounds and pervades all things; it
contains the visible universe and everything that we call reality. He
who apprehends the mysteries of Tao sees clearly all that was and
will be."
"Rubbish!" I retorted.
"Tao resembles a great animal, recumbent, motionless, containing in
its enormous body all the worlds of our universe, the past, the
present and the future. We see portions of this great monster
through a slit, which we call time. With the aid of this drug I shall
enlarge the slit. I shall behold the great figure of life, the great
recumbent beast in its entirety."
"And what do you wish me to do?"
"Watch, my friend. Watch and take notes. And if I go back too far
you must recall me to reality. You can recall me by shaking me
violently. If I appear to be suffering acute physical pain you must
recall me at once."
"Chalmers," I said, "I wish you wouldn't make this experiment. You
are taking dreadful risks. I don't believe that there is any fourth
dimension and I emphatically do not believe in Tao. And I don't
approve of your experimenting with unknown drugs."
"I know the properties of this drug," he replied. "I know precisely
how it affects the human animal and I know its dangers. The risk
does not reside in the drug itself. My only fear is that I may become
lost in time. You see, I shall assist the drug. Before I swallow this
pellet I shall give my undivided attention to the geometric and
algebraic symbols that I have traced on this paper." He raised the
mathematical chart that rested on his knee. "I shall prepare my mind
for an excursion into time. I shall approach the fourth dimension with
my conscious mind before I take the drug which will enable me to
exercise occult powers of perception. Before I enter the dream world
of the Eastern mystics I shall acquire all of the mathematical help
that modern science can offer. This mathematical knowledge, this
conscious approach to an actual apprehension of the fourth
dimension of time will supplement the work of the drug. The drug will
open up stupendous new vistas—the mathematical preparation will
enable me to grasp them intellectually. I have often grasped the
fourth dimension in dreams, emotionally, intuitively, but I have never
been able to recall, in waking life, the occult splendors that were
momentarily revealed to me.
"But with your aid, I believe that I can recall them. You will take
down everything that I say while I am under the influence of the
drug. No matter how strange or incoherent my speech may become
you will omit nothing. When I awake I may be able to supply the key
to whatever is mysterious or incredible. I am not sure that I shall
succeed, but if I do succeed"—his eyes were strangely luminous
—"time will exist for me no longer!"
He sat down abruptly. "I shall make the experiment at once. Please
stand over there by the window and watch. Have you a fountain
pen?"
I nodded gloomily and removed a pale green Waterman from my
upper vest pocket.
"And a pad, Frank?"
I groaned and produced a memorandum book. "I emphatically
disapprove of this experiment," I muttered. "You're taking a frightful
risk."
"Don't be an asinine old woman!" he admonished. "Nothing that you
can say will induce me to stop now. I entreat you to remain silent
while I study these charts."
He raised the charts and studied them intently. I watched the clock
on the mantel as it ticked out the seconds, and a curious dread
clutched at my heart so that I choked.
Suddenly the clock stopped ticking, and exactly at that moment
Chalmers swallowed the drug.

I rose quickly and moved toward him, but his eyes implored me not
to interfere. "The clock has stopped," he murmured. "The forces that
control it approve of my experiment. Time stopped, and I swallowed
the drug. I pray God that I shall not lose my way."
He closed his eyes and leaned back on the sofa. All of the blood had
left his face and he was breathing heavily. It was clear that the drug
was acting with extraordinary rapidity.
"It is beginning to get dark," he murmured. "Write that. It is
beginning to get dark and the familiar objects in the room are fading
out. I can discern them vaguely through my eyelids but they are
fading swiftly."
I shook my pen to make the ink come and wrote rapidly in shorthand
as he continued to dictate.
"I am leaving the room. The walls are vanishing and I can no longer
see any of the familiar objects. Your face, though, is still visible to
me. I hope that you are writing. I think that I am about to make a
great leap—a leap through space. Or perhaps it is through time that I
shall make the leap. I can not tell. Everything is dark, indistinct."
He sat for a while silent, with his head sunk upon his breast. Then
suddenly he stiffened and his eyelids fluttered open. "God in heaven!"
he cried. "I see!"
He was straining forward in his chair, staring at the opposite wall. But
I knew that he was looking beyond the wall and that the objects in
the room no longer existed for him. "Chalmers," I cried, "Chalmers,
shall I wake you?"
"Do not!" he shrieked. "I see everything. All of the billions of lives
that preceded me on this planet are before me at this moment. I see
men of all ages, all races, all colors. They are fighting, killing,
building, dancing, singing. They are sitting about rude fires on lonely
gray deserts, and flying through the air in monoplanes. They are
riding the seas in bark canoes and enormous steamships; they are
painting bison and mammoths on the walls of dismal caves and
covering huge canvases with queer futuristic designs. I watch the
migrations from Atlantis. I watch the migrations from Lemuria. I see
the elder races—a strange horde of black dwarfs overwhelming Asia
and the Neandertalers with lowered heads and bent knees ranging
obscenely across Europe. I watch the Achæans streaming into the
Greek islands, and the crude beginnings of Hellenic culture. I am in
Athens and Pericles is young. I am standing on the soil of Italy. I
assist in the rape of the Sabines; I march with the Imperial Legions. I
tremble with awe and wonder as the enormous standards go by and
the ground shakes with the tread of the victorious hastati. A
thousand naked slaves grovel before me as I pass in a litter of gold
and ivory drawn by night-black oxen from Thebes, and the flower-
girls scream 'Ave Cæsar' as I nod and smile. I am myself a slave on a
Moorish galley. I watch the erection of a great cathedral. Stone by
stone it rises, and through months and years I stand and watch each
stone as it falls into place. I am burned on a cross head downward in
the thyme-scented gardens of Nero, and I watch with amusement
and scorn the torturers at work in the chambers of the Inquisition.
"I walk in the holiest sanctuaries; I enter the temples of Venus. I
kneel in adoration before the Magna Mater, and I throw coins on the
bare knees of the sacred courtezans who sit with veiled faces in the
groves of Babylon. I creep into an Elizabethan theater and with the
stinking rabble about me I applaud The Merchant of Venice. I walk
with Dante through the narrow streets of Florence. I meet the young
Beatrice and the hem of her garment brushes my sandals as I stare
enraptured. I am a priest of Isis, and my magic astounds the nations.
Simon Magus kneels before me, imploring my assistance, and
Pharaoh trembles when I approach. In India I talk with the Masters
and run screaming from their presence, for their revelations are as
salt on wounds that bleed.
"I perceive everything simultaneously. I perceive everything from all
sides; I am a part of all the teeming billions about me. I exist in all
men and all men exist in me. I perceive the whole of human history
in a single instant, the past and the present.
"By simply straining I can see farther and farther back. Now I am
going back through strange curves and angles. Angles and curves
multiply about me. I perceive great segments of time through curves.
There is curved time, and angular time. The beings that exist in
angular time can not enter curved time. It is very strange.
"I am going back and back. Man has disappeared from the earth.
Gigantic reptiles crouch beneath enormous palms and swim through
the loathly black waters of dismal lakes. Now the reptiles have
disappeared. No animals remain upon the land, but beneath the
waters, plainly visible to me, dark forms move slowly over the rotting
vegetation.
"The forms are becoming simpler and simpler. Now they are single
cells. All about me there are angles—strange angles that have no
counterparts on the earth. I am desperately afraid.
"There is an abyss of being which man has never fathomed."
I stared. Chalmers had risen to his feet and he was gesticulating
helplessly with his arms. "I am passing through unearthly angles; I
am approaching—oh, the burning horror of it!"
"Chalmers!" I cried. "Do you wish me to interfere?"
He brought his right hand quickly before his face, as though to shut
out a vision unspeakable. "Not yet!" he cried; "I will go on. I will see
—what—lies—beyond——"
A cold sweat streamed from his forehead and his shoulders jerked
spasmodically. "Beyond life there are"—his face grew ashen with
terror—"things that I can not distinguish. They move slowly through
angles. They have no bodies, and they move slowly through
outrageous angles."
It was then that I became aware of the odor in the room. It was a
pungent, indescribable odor, so nauseous that I could scarcely endure
it. I stepped quickly to the window and threw it open. When I
returned to Chalmers and looked into his eyes I nearly fainted.
"I think they have scented me!" he shrieked. "They are slowly turning
toward me."
He was trembling horribly. For a moment he clawed at the air with his
hands. Then his legs gave way beneath him and he fell forward on
his face, slobbering and moaning.
I watched him in silence as he dragged himself across the floor. He
was no longer a man. His teeth were bared and saliva dripped from
the corners of his mouth.
"Chalmers," I cried. "Chalmers, stop it! Stop it, do you hear?"
As if in reply to my appeal he commenced to utter hoarse convulsive
sounds which resembled nothing so much as the barking of a dog,
and began a sort of hideous writhing in a circle about the room. I
bent and seized him by the shoulders. Violently, desperately, I shook
him. He turned his head and snapped at my wrist. I was sick with
horror, but I dared not release him for fear that he would destroy
himself in a paroxysm of rage.
"Chalmers," I muttered, "you must stop that. There is nothing in this
room that can harm you. Do you understand?"
I continued to shake and admonish him, and gradually the madness
died out of his face. Shivering convulsively, he crumpled into a
grotesque heap on the Chinese rug.

I carried him to the sofa and deposited him upon it. His features were
twisted in pain, and I knew that he was still struggling dumbly to
escape from abominable memories.
"Whisky," he muttered. "You'll find a flask in the cabinet by the
window—upper left-hand drawer."
When I handed him the flask his fingers tightened about it until the
knuckles showed blue. "They nearly got me," he gasped. He drained
the stimulant in immoderate gulps, and gradually the color crept back
into his face.
"That drug was the very devil!" I murmured.
"It wasn't the drug," he moaned.
His eyes no longer glared insanely, but he still wore the look of a lost
soul.
"They scented me in time," he moaned. "I went too far."
"What were they like?" I said, to humor him.
He leaned forward and gripped my arm. He was shivering horribly.
"No word in our language can describe them!" He spoke in a hoarse
whisper. "They are symbolized vaguely in the myth of the Fall, and in
an obscene form which is occasionally found engraven on ancient
tablets. The Greeks had a name for them, which veiled their essential
foulness. The tree, the snake and the apple—these are the vague
symbols of a most awful mystery."
His voice had risen to a scream. "Frank, Frank, a terrible and
unspeakable deed was done in the beginning. Before time, the deed,
and from the deed——"
He had risen and was hysterically pacing the room. "The seeds of the
deed move through angles in dim recesses of time. They are hungry
and athirst!"
"Chalmers," I pleaded to quiet him. "We are living in the third decade
of the Twentieth Century."
"They are lean and athirst!" he shrieked. "The Hounds of Tindalos!"
"Chalmers, shall I phone for a physician?"
"A physician can not help me now. They are horrors of the soul, and
yet"—he hid his face in his hands and groaned—"they are real, Frank.
I saw them for a ghastly moment. For a moment I stood on the other
side. I stood on the pale gray shores beyond time and space. In an
awful light that was not light, in a silence that shrieked, I saw them.
"All the evil in the universe was concentrated in their lean, hungry
bodies. Or had they bodies? I saw them only for a moment; I can not
be certain. But I heard them breathe. Indescribably for a moment I
felt their breath upon my face. They turned toward me and I fled
screaming. In a single moment I fled screaming through time. I fled
down quintillions of years.
"But they scented me. Men awake in them cosmic hungers. We have
escaped, momentarily, from the foulness that rings them round. They
thirst for that in us which is clean, which emerged from the deed
without stain. There is a part of us which did not partake in the deed,
and that they hate. But do not imagine that they are literally,
prosaically evil. They are beyond good and evil as we know it. They
are that which in the beginning fell away from cleanliness. Through
the deed they became bodies of death, receptacles of all foulness.
But they are not evil in our sense because in the spheres through
which they move there is no thought, no morals, no right or wrong as
we understand it. There is merely the pure and the foul. The foul
expresses itself through angles; the pure through curves. Man, the
pure part of him, is descended from a curve. Do not laugh. I mean
that literally."
I rose and searched for my hat. "I'm dreadfully sorry for you,
Chalmers," I said, as I walked toward the door. "But I don't intend to
stay and listen to such gibberish. I'll send my physician to see you.
He's an elderly, kindly chap and he won't be offended if you tell him
to go to the devil. But I hope you'll respect his advice. A week's rest
in a good sanitarium should benefit you immeasurably."
I heard him laughing as I descended the stairs, but his laughter was
so utterly mirthless that it moved me to tears.

When Chalmers phoned the following morning my first impulse was

to hang up the receiver immediately. His request was so unusual and
his voice was so wildly hysterical that I feared any further association
with him would result in the impairment of my own sanity. But I could
not doubt the genuineness of his misery, and when he broke down
completely and I heard him sobbing over the wire I decided to
comply with his request.
"Very well," I said. "I will come over immediately and bring the
plaster."
En route to Chalmers' home I stopped at a hardware store and
purchased twenty pounds of plaster of Paris. When I entered my
friend's room he was crouching by the window watching the opposite
wall out of eyes that were feverish with fright. When he saw me he
rose and seized the parcel containing the plaster with an avidity that
amazed and horrified me. He had extruded all of the furniture and
the room presented a desolate appearance.
"It is just conceivable that we can thwart them!" he exclaimed. "But
we must work rapidly. Frank, there is a stepladder in the hall. Bring it
here immediately. And then fetch a pail of water."
"What for?" I murmured.
He turned sharply and there was a flush on his face. "To mix the
plaster, you fool!" he cried. "To mix the plaster that will save our
bodies and souls from a contamination unmentionable. To mix the
plaster that will save the world from—Frank, they must be kept out!"
"Who?" I murmured.
"The Hounds of Tindalos!" he muttered. "They can only reach us
through angles. We must eliminate all angles from this room. I shall
plaster up all of the corners, all of the crevices. We must make this
room resemble the interior of a sphere."
I knew that it would have been useless to argue with him. I fetched
the stepladder, Chalmers mixed the plaster, and for three hours we
labored. We filled in the four corners of the wall and the intersections
of the floor and wall and the wall and ceiling, and we rounded the
sharp angles of the window-seat.
"I shall remain in this room until they return in time," he affirmed
when our task was completed. "When they discover that the scent
leads through curves they will return. They will return ravenous and
snarling and unsatisfied to the foulness that was in the beginning,
before time, beyond space."
He nodded graciously and lit a cigarette. "It was good of you to
help," he said.
"Will you not see a physician, Chalmers?" I pleaded.
"Perhaps—tomorrow," he murmured. "But now I must watch and
wait."
"Wait for what?" I urged.
Chalmers smiled wanly. "I know that you think me insane," he said.
"You have a shrewd but prosaic mind, and you can not conceive of an
entity that does not depend for its existence on force and matter. But
did it ever occur to you, my friend, that force and matter are merely
the barriers to perception imposed by time and space? When one
knows, as I do, that time and space are identical and that they are
both deceptive because they are merely imperfect manifestations of a
higher reality, one no longer seeks in the visible world for an
explanation of the mystery and terror of being."
I rose and walked toward the door.
"Forgive me," he cried. "I did not mean to offend you. You have a
superlative intellect, but I—I have a superhuman one. It is only
natural that I should be aware of your limitations."
"Phone if you need me," I said, and descended the stairs two steps at
a time. "I'll send my physician over at once," I muttered, to myself.
"He's a hopeless maniac, and heaven knows what will happen if
someone doesn't take charge of him immediately."

The following is a condensation of two announcements which

appeared in the Partridgeville Gazette for July 3, 1928:
Earthquake Shakes Financial District

At 2 o'clock this morning an earth tremor of unusual severity broke

several plate-glass windows in Central Square and completely
disorganized the electric and street railway systems. The tremor was
felt in the outlying districts and the steeple of the First Baptist Church
on Angell Hill (designed by Christopher Wren in 1717) was entirely
demolished. Firemen are now attempting to put out a blaze which
threatens to destroy the Partridgeville Glue Works. An investigation is
promised by the mayor and an immediate attempt will be made to fix
responsibility for this disastrous occurrence.

OCCULT WRITER MURDERED BY UNKNOWN GUEST

Horrible Crime in Central Square

Mystery Surrounds Death of Halpin Chalmers

At 9 a.m. today the body of Halpin Chalmers, author and journalist,

was found in an empty room above the jewelry store of Smithwick
and Isaacs, 24 Central Square. The coroner's investigation revealed
that the room had been rented furnished to Mr. Chalmers on May 1,
and that he had himself disposed of the furniture a fortnight ago.
Chalmers was the author of several recondite books on occult
themes, and a member of the Bibliographic Guild. He formerly
resided in Brooklyn, New York.
At 7 a.m. Mr. L. E. Hancock, who occupies the apartment opposite
Chalmers' room in the Smithwick and Isaacs establishment, smelt a
peculiar odor when he opened his door to take in his cat and the
morning edition of the Partridgeville Gazette. The odor he describes
as extremely acrid and nauseous, and he affirms that it was so strong
in the vicinity of Chalmers' room that he was obliged to hold his nose
when he approached that section of the hall.
He was about to return to his own apartment when it occurred to him
that Chalmers might have accidentally forgotten to turn off the gas in
his kitchenette. Becoming considerably alarmed at the thought, he
decided to investigate, and when repeated tappings on Chalmers'
door brought no response he notified the superintendent. The latter
opened the door by means of a pass key, and the two men quickly
made their way into Chalmers' room. The room was utterly destitute
of furniture, and Hancock asserts that when he first glanced at the
floor his heart went cold within him, and that the superintendent,
without saying a word, walked to the open window and stared at the
building opposite for fully five minutes.
Chalmers lay stretched upon his back in the center of the room. He
was starkly nude, and his chest and arms were covered with a
peculiar bluish pus or ichor. His head lay grotesquely upon his chest.
It had been completely severed from his body, and the features were
twisted and torn and horribly mangled. Nowhere was there a trace of
blood.

"He was starkly nude, and twisted and torn."

The room presented a most astonishing appearance. The
intersections of the walls, ceiling and floor had been thickly smeared
with plaster of Paris, but at intervals fragments had cracked and
fallen off, and someone had grouped these upon the floor about the
murdered man so as to form a perfect triangle.
Beside the body were several sheets of charred yellow paper. These
bore fantastic geometric designs and symbols and several hastily
scrawled sentences. The sentences were almost illegible and so
absurd in context that they furnished no possible clue to the
perpetrator of the crime. "I am waiting and watching," Chalmers
wrote. "I sit by the window and watch walls and ceiling. I do not
believe they can reach me, but I must beware of the Doels. Perhaps
they can help them break through. The satyrs will help, and they can
advance through the scarlet circles. The Greeks knew a way of
preventing that. It is a great pity that we have forgotten so much."
On another sheet of paper, the most badly charred of the seven or
eight fragments found by Detective Sergeant Douglas (of the
Partridgeville Reserve), was scrawled the following:
"Good God, the plaster is falling! A terrific shock has loosened the
plaster and it is falling. An earthquake perhaps! I never could have
anticipated this. It is growing dark in the room. I must phone Frank.
But can he get here in time? I will try. I will recite the Einstein
formula. I will—God, they are breaking through! They are breaking
through! Smoke is pouring from the corners of the wall. Their
tongues—ahhhhh——"
In the opinion of Detective Sergeant Douglas, Chalmers was poisoned
by some obscure chemical. He has sent specimens of the strange
blue slime found on Chalmers' body to the Partridgeville Chemical
Laboratories; and he expects the report will shed new light on one of
the most mysterious crimes of recent years. That Chalmers
entertained a guest on the evening preceding the earthquake is
certain, for his neighbor distinctly heard a low murmur of
conversation in the former's room as he passed it on his way to the
stairs. Suspicion points strongly to this unknown visitor and the police
are diligently endeavoring to discover his identity.

Report of James Morton, chemist and bacteriologist:

My dear Mr. Douglas:
The fluid sent to me for analysis is the most peculiar that I have ever
examined. It resembles living protoplasm, but it lacks the peculiar
substances known as enzymes. Enzymes catalyze the chemical
reactions occurring in living cells, and when the cell dies they cause it
to disintegrate by hydrolyzation. Without enzymes protoplasm should
possess enduring vitality, i.e., immortality. Enzymes are the negative
components, so to speak, of unicellular organism, which is the basis
of all life. That living matter can exist without enzymes biologists
emphatically deny. And yet the substance that you have sent me is
alive and it lacks these "indispensable" bodies. Good God, sir, do you
realize what astounding new vistas this opens up?

Excerpt from The Secret Watchers by the late Halpin Chalmers:

What if, parallel to the life we know, there is another life that does
not die, which lacks the elements that destroy our life? Perhaps in
another dimension there is a different force from that which
generates our life. Perhaps this force emits energy, or something
similar to energy, which passes from the unknown dimension where it
is and creates a new form of cell life in our dimension. No one knows
that such new cell life does exist in our dimension. Ah, but I have
seen its manifestations. I have talked with them. In my room at night
I have talked with the Doels. And in dreams I have seen their maker.
I have stood on the dim shore beyond time and matter and seen it. It
moves through strange curves and outrageous angles. Some day I
shall travel in time and meet it face to face.
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