Vienna, September 21, 1899
IX., Berggasse 19

Dear Wilhelm,

Here I am after a horrible thirty-two-hour journey through water, sitting again in the familiar place, with seven signatures of proofs in front of me and no medical news, and warmly welcomed by your kind letter with its good reports. I find a kind of substitute for our foiled meeting in the heightened liveliness of our correspondence and hope that you will also often think of the living while you are digging for the dead. As you correctly surmised, my ill humor fell away from me — not after a migraine, but rather after a nice series of similar conditions. Yet I believe my self-criticism was not wholly unjustified. Somewhere inside me there is a feeling for form, an appreciaton of beauty as a kind of perfection; and the tortuous sentences of my dream book, with their parading of indirect phrases