The following is, for the first time translated and brought to print, the written correspondence between Sigmund Freud and Rainer Maria Rilke. The record was only completed in late 2022, when the German Literature Archive (GLA) acquired Rilke’s entire literary estate from his descendants. Letters between the two went unnoticed by scholarship; the GLA itself didn’t seem aware at the time of acquisition that Freud was one of Rilke’s correspondents. Over a century after they were written, the German literary review Sinn und Form corrected that astonishing oversight, and through their publication granted us the two writers’ reflections on psychoanalysis and war. Freud and Rilke had a strong (albeit indirect) relationship through their close friendships with Lou-Andreas Salomé. Salomé was a pupil of Sigmund Freud (she is often labeled the first female psychoanalyst), and a sometime lover of Rilke. The epistolary exchanges between Rilke and Salomé lasted until his death, and formed the contact surface between him and psychoanalysis, a subject which terrified and allured him. Analysis and poetry brawl throughout their letters for mastery of the soul. Rilke likened it to an exorcism, a ritual that would drive out the demons underneath both his hypochondria and his sensitivity to nature. Salomé agreed, at last warning him: “Never let yourself be analyzed. Your creativity will die.” This context infuses the conversation between Freud and Rilke with a sinister air. Rilke is vulnerable, even frightened by an animal sense of who has the power. The poet wants to keep his distance from the analyst, due not to mundane social anxiety, but to his fear of what that meeting might bring. Freud meanwhile strolls casually through topics sensitive to Rilke: the assault on Duino, and his own verdicts on human nature. Near the end of his letter, Rilke resigns: “the choice to see it through alone prevailed, insofar as I still retain the dregs of my solitude.” By choosing loneliness over therapy, while revealing that loneliness is all that he has left, a paradox is simultaneously created and resolved. Declining company because you are alone is obviously a contradiction, but, by incarnating loneliness and joining himself to it, he collapses subject and object into one. Against the brutal invasions of his world by analysis and war, he replaces that world with solitude and rejects that which he could have lost. In doing so, Rilke places himself in an untamed expanse of will, at the origin of art, a poet to the bitter end. 
Freud to Rilke, February 11th 1916 Prof. Dr. Freud Wien, IX. Berggasse 19. 11.2.16 My dearest and most esteemed doctor, It was somehow brought to my attention that you are back in Vienna, on military duties, and live at this mailing address. I had to suppress my urge to visit until you showed signs of life, that is, until I gathered that you had ordered your affairs. But my son Ernst (to whom you were kind enough to write, and even somewhat resembles you) is on leave from Isonzo for a few days. He had me ask when and where he could meet you. Naturally, I’d much rather have you at ours for a bite, but I don’t know if you’ll make it – Tuesday evening I’m holding a lecture somewhere, and either Thursday or Friday my wife travels to Hamburg with Ernst. That is to say, a prompt response would be most kind. Your most humble servant, Freud Rilke to Freud, February 17th 1916 Hopfners Park-Hôtel Wien XIII. (Hietzing.) on Feb. 17, 1916 My esteemed Professor Freud, Have I missed your son? It’s as I fear: your letter is dated the eleventh, but consider this — I first found it today, have been away on “business” since precisely the eleventh, and returned this morning. Could the timing be any worse? Or do you still have him in Vienna? In this case, can he come tomorrow evening at five–?, for I am too tired, too upset, too confused to come myself; indeed so oppressed by these incommensurable daily circumstances, I’m saddened to think that he’ll even see me like this. This strange world and its demands are so preposterous, that they petrify me deep within. First were some fourteen days of basic training. Then came my assignment to the War Archives, where I squander the hours in intellectual despair, just as I had in physical despair. But the greatest terror is the rubble burying my heart, deeper by the day, and often I’ve thought that a talk with you would save me from this burial. Alas, the choice to see it through alone prevailed, insofar as I still retain the dregs of my solitude. If I can gradually collect myself, then I’ll be sure to call on you and visit; I know this will be good. In the meantime, convey my greetings to your ladies, and should your son Ernst already have departed, the most heartfelt regret at not having met. Should he still be in Vienna, I’d request a word by phone: but here [at home], for we may not receive calls in the Archive. Yours truly and sincerely devoted, R.M.Rilke Freud to Rilke, February 18th 1916 Prof. Dr. Freud Wien, IX. Berggasse 19. 18.2.16 Most esteemed, The pattern has continued: on the very evening that your pneumatic letter arrived, my Ernst departed for Germany. But he returns in a week, and now knows where to find you. If you do feel the urge to unburden yourself with a chat, don’t hide yourself from us. I’ve struggled with this particular monstrosity for 1½ years. I armor my weak spots here and there, hoping to check it, so long as it leaves my four weakest alone – my three sons, and my son-in-law in the service. And even if you aren’t as vivid, composed, or polished as during your first visit, we’ll make it work. The war confused me, but only at first. I soon developed a pessimistic revulsion and ever since have had general license
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