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Mt. Carmel
16 April 36
Dear Father Freud,
It seems right that I should begin my birthday letter today as I do not know in how many instalments I shall write it. Since you have had far more to do with doctors than I have, you will know better than I how much heed one should pay them. In my present state nothing appeals to me more than writing to you—nothing is more animating and delightful when I am alone—and at the moment my unsatisfactory modus vivendi brings a certain emptiness with it. My wife and children also want to have some life of their own; they are healthier and younger than I and so they cannot be expected to have regard for all my needs and I cannot take it amiss that I am alone for many hours of the day when I would prefer to be in company and vice versa. But I do miss my reading and nothing can replace that. Even being read aloud to is not the same. To be alone with another mind, for instance this dialogue with you, re-reading Totem and Taboo or turning up some other of your volumes—all that is irreplaceable. I have tried it but it just does not work. I must therefore make do by means of thinking and remembering or else by means of productive work. Today for example I have finished off the end of an essay that the Neue Tagebuch asked for on your life and achievements.1
I worked at it for three days, pleased and depressed at one and the same time, for I did not want to describe publicly my personal relationship with you and yet that was uppermost in my mind throughout, just as a recent experience is uppermost in one's hour of analysis. And I could not let the publishers down, and it takes quite a time for the post to reach Paris. I also felt how much I would like to have absorbed your complete works once again before embarking on this essay, which is intended for you to read. Now I have sent it