I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Mengia Tschalaer
Queere Räume
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
Sandra Frimmel
Ich hasse die Avantgarde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Umas Gesicht – Thurmans Stimme
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
Was wir nicht sehen
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the tame
Jochen Thermann
L’aide-cuisinier
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Fiktionen von Heimat
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Marcus Quent
Verrinnen der Zeit und Glaube an die Welt
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Ann Cotten
Dialoge
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
Jean-Luc Nancy
Je me souviens (Jean-Luc Nancy)
Peter Ott
Die monotheistische Zelle oder Berichte aus der Fiktion
What do I remember? My memories of my life have always been very limited. I only remember single fragments, good...
Une Trinité de mémoire
Je me souviens de quelques lieux, de quelques parfums d’enfance. En Amérique du Sud, en Equateur, à...
I remember during the frozen Tokyo winter of 1997: I took long walks in the dead of night through the...
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
DIAPHANES fragt nach Relikten von Zukunftsvisionen in den Bildräumen der Vergangenheit, nach Spuren und Signaturen eines einst Vorstellbaren und zeitlos Möglichen.
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
Now the dead will no longer be buried, now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself, now human bodies will expectorate fury and envision their own transformation or negation, now infinite and untold catastrophes are imminently on their way —ready to cross the bridge over the river Aire and engulf us all — in this winter of discontent, just beginning at this dead-of-night instant before midnight, North-Sea ice-particles already crackling in the air and the last summer long-over, the final moment of my seventeenth birthday, so we have to go, the devil is at our heels… And now we’re running at full-tilt through the centre of the city, across the square beneath the Purbeck-marble edifice of the Queen’s Hotel, down towards the dark arches under the railway tracks, the illuminated sky shaking, the air fissured with beating cacophony,...
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»Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO DI COLOR CHE SANNO. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs
marching. No, agallop: DELINE THE MARE.
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since?
If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. BASTA! I will see
if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world
without end.«
James Joyce
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.