A soul discovered by silver microphones in its hollow, a blood beech dreaming of dancing and already swaying into its dances, dancing the dances within itself. Arlecchino, who starts a quarrel with the entire back house, with each individual resident in every single window, proud of his fabulous penchant for conflict. It is the tradition of the romantic fragment, as it emerged between Hamann, Novalis, and Friedrich Schlegel, to which Botho Strauss connects in his new book. He has not written anything comparable before, never strayed so far from narrative, contemplation, and criticism as in these short, vivid texts. And from this formal novelty arise new insights. They all revolve around the uncommunicable, around the poetic moment that no intention could bring forth, around the withdrawal of meaning, which is - surprisingly, relieving.