"Age is a dwarf state, ruled by young giants." Who says this? A lyrical self caught between moments of happiness and darkness, emptiness, and downfall. While combing a dog's fur, cutting an apple, or whenever the mountains stand in blue, the wind rustles in the trees, and the beauty of the leaves takes your breath away, the question arises whether this is happiness, for it never lasts long. Something always intervenes—words that hurt, spoken by others, against which only one thing helps: "To wrap oneself in verses as if they were protective garments, beautiful, world-repelling, the imagination is called residence." In Martin Walser's new book, there are life stenograms; sometimes they are lyrical, sometimes essayistic, but always touching, deeply felt, and true.