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Bad Gastein, July 29, 1921
Dear friend,
I can't say that your letters cause me concern, but they do vex me. I recognize the justification for your critique of Lajos's assertions, and for that reason I am very happy that you want to consult an inoffensive internist, but I also see how unassuming you are when you want to find a basis for your own diagnosis. In short, I don't believe in your organic illness, whereby it should be conceded that no organ enjoys the freshness of twenty years ago, which is supposed to be the fate of people in general.
I think you are engaging in “unfair competition.” Because I write to you in every letter about the prospect of death—strangely, only to you; I don't even know why I do that—, you take the cue and think you have to do it simultaneously with me—or ahead of time. At the same time, with me it is also only a project, preparation, not even preparedness, for I am still so keenly interested in many outcomes, so curious, that I am in no hurry at all, provided that I maintain a bearable form of existence. If we contemplate it further, it could be some very dark cruelty or other on my part.
So, you buried your mother, She was, as far as I knew her, a very respectable woman; she had something superior. I presume that gives a strange feeling of being alone in the world. With me, conversely, there is the fear