To you, dear friend. . . for this dawning decade 1960-70, in whose lap the black and white cards of our uncertain fate await us.

The past decade dealt me heavy blows – the death of dear friends and the even more painful loss of my wife, the end of my scientific activity and the burdens of old age, but also all sorts of honors and above all your friendship, which I value the more highly because it appears that men cannot stand me in the long run.

Since I do not deem myself God-almighty enough to have made them other than they are, I must put it down entirely to my own account and lengthen my shadow accordingly.

Your understanding and your interest have done much to restore my self-confidence, severely shaken by my incessant struggle with difficult contemporaries.

It is indeed no trifling thing to be granted the happy proof that somehow one is “possible” and has achieved something whose meaning someone else, apart from myself, is able to see.

Being well-known not to say “famous” means little when one realizes that those who mouth my name have fundamentally no idea of what it’s all about.

The gratification of knowing that one is essentially posthumous is short-lived. ~Carl Jung, Letters Vol. II, Page 516.

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