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This review of Groddeck's last book will inevitably resemble in some degree an obituary written from a personal point of view, just as his scientific writings to an unusual extent were personal musings.—A stranger has passed away, and yet we all feel a personal loss; he lived among us in friendly detachment like a shy boy among elders, delighting to disarm us with outbursts of wit and wisdom yet afraid to join in the conversation. Ordinary people we meet socially and professionally; Groddeck created about himself a peculiar atmosphere which made such approaches difficult. Everything was a paradox or an unknowable phenomenon, nothing was familiar, there was no common ground between himself and his audience except the Incomprehensible, the Inconsequential, or the infallible Es. Whether one corresponded with him or met him there was always the Great Enigma, The Inscrutable, held up as a mirror to one's soul or as a mask for himself. Usually when people play this game the onlooker quickly begins to feel that time and human opportunity are being wasted. With Groddeck it was not so, he always had something to say; it was never, never what one wanted, but it seemed worth while, though oddly enough it was usually soon forgotten. But Groddeck himself was not forgotten. I think he nursed a grudge against fate that he was born neither in Olympus nor in Lilliput; he was never the right size. In talk he would swell himself up gigantically and burst into the most dramatic gestures (his strugglings 'Hin zu Gottnatur'), and then stop suddenly like a little child. There was something cadaverous and uncanny behind these gestures which threw cold shadows in his talk, one felt that in his view the Es broke bones, grew babies in plenty, but could never be warm and comfortable. The passionate struggle to find unity with nature and harmony everywhere grew from and went with an inward despair of ever finding peace within. He speaks of the great contemporaries of Goethe, Kant, He