Transcription:
CHARLES DWIGHT WILLARD LOS ANGELES El Arco, San Rafael Heights, December 25th, 1912. My dear Friend: A man who is well,
and able to get about, is allowed the happiness of meeting his friends at intervals, but one who is tied down by long illness,
as I am, may see only those that come to him. As I live in rather an inaccessible spot, and as I am not always strong enough
to see people, the number I actually meet is small, and tends perhaps to grow less. Yet there never was a time in my life
when I felt more dependent on my friends than now, for they are the windows through which I get most of my view of the world
of action - where I once played a small part myself, but from which I am now exiled. Whether this exile is temporary or permanent
I do not know. I do know that it has already lasted over four years, and that I am now in a condition where the force of disease
and the power of resistance seem to hold exactly even, but leave me unable to get about, save with the utmost strain and discomfort.
However, my situation is not one that calls for sympathy. Tuberculosis seldom causes its victim much pain, and it leaves his
mind free and, as a rule, cheerful. Sometimes he is even absurdly hopeful, which I believe I am not. It is my good fortune
to have almost the only profession in which a man can earn a fair living and be sick-a-bed at the same time. I have a comfortable
home in beautiful surroundings, and I lack for nothing that could help toward my recovery. How many of the hundreds of thousands
who are afflicted with this disease are so fortunate? But after all, who are they in 05331