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Budapest, November 6, 1921
Dear Professor,
The “Groddeck-mood”1 had disappeared again for the time being, and I wanted to wait with my reply until the hypochondriacal attack (which, incidentally, was not so strong) abated.—
Unfortunately, I can't say anything all too gratifying about myself: the day's work (eight to nine hours) tires me so that I don't get to anything else. Thus, the good work resolutions remain just that—resolutions. Incidentally, it is also a purely material question with me. In the past year (the coming December calculated along with it), I earned about 500,000 crowns—and we spent about the same amount this year. And that with strenuous work, at the expense of all literary ambition.
The hours are still fun for me, in part; to be sure, I now seem to be less focused on finding new things than I am on achieving better results with improvement in technique. My specialty is very long treatments with final success, which also extends to the radical change in the patient's character. Practical results, even with significant alleviation of symptoms, don't seem to satisfy me. It is rare that I send a patient away. Thus, I am then in a position to turn newcomers over to others.
The society is working well, as usual. Of course, there is no question about an increase in the work force. The ψα youth are consuming the biological morsel that I threw them in bits and pieces rather than working it out properly; the whole group is already working biologically, whereby