Friederike Mayröcker has no time. Not for summaries and memories, not for indulgent contemplation and reasoning, and certainly not for storytelling. She doesn't even have time for life itself, unless it involves writing. What matters are solely the poetry and the echoing inventions of a life that has lasted almost a century, preserved in her writings. While this life may be subjected to the demands of the finiteness of all human existence on the outside, on the inside and in its transformation into the eternal moment, it only becomes richer in forms of experience: "The years become more and more incredible, the blue slits of the sky, I feel very ambivalent." After the études, the scraps and fragments, Friederike Mayröcker is now writing a cahier or little notebook, as she calls it; it is simultaneously the tw.