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May 16, 1897
Dear Wilhelm,
I am now ready to enjoy a nice Sunday evening and thank you for your last letter, which was so very edifying. Bunge1 was extremely good for me. After all, we do not want to be the only intelligent people in the world; what makes sense to us must also be to the liking of a few capable fellows. Bunge surely makes up for a whole flock of university professors. I spared myself informing you of two miserable critiques that have come to my knowledge since Nuremberg — one of them by an assistant of Chrobak. You can calmly put up with it.
I could tell from your letter that you are mentally refreshed. I hope that now you will remain your old self again for a long time and will let me go on taking advantage of you as a kindly disposed audience. Without such an audience I really cannot work. If you agree, I shall proceed as I did last time and send you whatever notes I have ready, with the request that you return them when I ask. No matter where I start, I always am right back with the neuroses and with the ψ [psychic] apparatus. It certainly is neither personal nor objective indifference if I cannot get my pen to write anything else. Things are fermenting and bubbling in me; I am only waiting for a new thrust. I cannot make up my mind about writing the preliminary outline of the total work you desire; I believe what prevents me is an obscure expectation that shortly something essential will turn up. On the other hand, I have felt impelled to start working on the dream, where I feel so very certain — and in your judgment am entitled to. For the time being I had to interrupt; hurriedly had to prepare an abstract of all my publications2 for the printer; the vote [on the professorship] is going to take place any day. Now I have finished and am thinking about the dream [book] again. I have been looking into the literature and feel like the Celtic imp: “Oh, how glad I am that no one, no one knows …”3 No one even suspects that the dream is not nonsense but wi