You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
“… while memory holds a seat, In this distracted globe….”
Much to my distress my father has become the object of highly polemic discussions between scientists who—of necessity—base their judgment on a fragmentary documenation and whose primary aim has not always been a faithful reconstruction of my father's personality but sometimes the synthesis of the portrait of a man, who was more or less worthy of Freud's esteem, who more or less deserved to be upheld or to be rejected by his great teacher.
As the only surviving son of Victor Tausk, I felt challenged to offer to those who may now have become interested in my father, the picture as it has been engraved upon my mind and can be retraced from a fair number of his letters in my possession.
My father was a very gifted, very serious, an exceedingly honest man, who dearly loved his children and was loved and admired by them. He had a great sense of responsibility toward his sons and to deny this does him great injustice. I would firmly maintain this, even though he separated from his wife after a short period of married life and for a number of years—for whatever reasons—was totally unable to provide for her and her children as a dutiful citizen is supposed to do. I believe that he was predominantly tense and living in inner conflicts; but of those I have little first hand knowledge. (Physically, he was not exceedingly tall, as has been said. I remember him saying that his height was 1.74 meters).
At the time of my birth (Feb. 1902), my parents lived in Bosnia, a province which had the official status of “occupied