11 Nov. 1939
Forgive me, dear sir, (I’m always afraid of bothering you), forgive me for disturbing you. I would like to tell you, as if I had a very small stone on my tongue, that I am very saddened by things in this world and that they are increasingly strange to me, to the point that I shake, though ducats do not fall from me like they do with some beautiful people. You know how to listen, do you ever.
Take a look at why today (and it’s almost always the trivial and insignificant things) an evil, deep depression has sat on my chest and on everything that breathes. I tried to think of someone to confide in, to make it lighter, because sometimes that helps, to say, for instance, good day, or many greetings, dear sir, sometimes it helps, but even if not always. I have remembered you and you will forgive me and will not think anything bad, but will just say that I am writing to you again and maybe you will also say that it’s good that I am writing you. That would make me incredibly happy.
I read the first review of my book today. I know it’s nothing, but I had expected so much from it! I’d expected that somebody would offer me their hand and lead me somewhere, across some abyss, across a swamp. And yet…but no! I’m feeling a lot better now that I’ve written this to you. It’s enough for me to smile a little and tell you (and you know about it) that there is no need for any, any accompaniment to singing, when the singing is to empty walls (on which sometimes there are pictures). That’s all.

Yours truly, Jiří Orten.