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2 June 1931
Vienna, IX. Berggasse 19
Dear Jones,
Perhaps you already know that, since you wrote on 2 May for my birthday, I not only turned seventy-five years old, but underwent yet another operation and a slow convalescence, which is still incomplete. I answered a great number of letters, and today, almost at the bottom of the pile, I finally came across your letter, which I am answering belatedly, but gladly.
On the whole, there is actually not much left to say. The fact that my strength is gradually diminishing cannot contradict any expectations.1 My last illness put an end to the security that I enjoyed for eight years. Everyone generally advises me not to focus on this particular path to leave life. I appreciate the justness of this warning, but can do nothing about it.
Since the Goethe Prize last year the attitude of my contemporaries towards me has changed at least into a somewhat reluctant recognition, just to show how unimportant it actually is. Rather like a tolerable prosthesis which did not want to be an end in itself or the chief purpose of existence.