Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Kai van Eikels
Macht kaputt, was Demokratie kaputt macht
Claire Fontaine
Vers une théorie du matérialisme magique
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – oder: die ekstatische Agonie des Erscheinens
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Malte Fabian Rauch
Where the Negative Holds Court
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Umas Gesicht – Thurmans Stimme
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the tame
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
Was wir nicht sehen
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Fiktionen von Heimat
Thomas Huber
Generation of the Lynn Hershman Antibody
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Jochen Thermann
L’aide-cuisinier
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Maël Renouard
Modifications infimes et considérables
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Ann Cotten
Dialoge
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Ute Holl
Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile
K.A.
Hermal
Haus am Gern
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée (Blog1)
Une Trinité de mémoire
Je me souviens de quelques lieux, de quelques parfums d’enfance. En Amérique du Sud, en Equateur, à...
A Little Paris Nightmare
I loved Paris, even as a little boy, long before I lived there. I was like Pinocchio...
La soif
Quand j’étais enfant, près de la maison ou j’habitais, il y avait une voie ferrée. Avant de m'endormir, j’entendais...
DIAPHANES fragt nach Relikten von Zukunftsvisionen in den Bildräumen der Vergangenheit, nach Spuren und Signaturen eines einst Vorstellbaren und zeitlos Möglichen.
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und Genres.
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
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,...
Meine Sprache
Deutsch
Aktuell ausgewählte Inhalte
Deutsch, Englisch, Französisch
»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.