Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Felix Stalder
Feedback als Authentitzität
Kai van Eikels
Macht kaputt, was Demokratie kaputt macht
Marlene Streeruwitz
Der Autor ist nicht die Autorin
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
Wofür steht der Tod der Avantgarden?
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Axel Dielmann
Die Schneiderin
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Maria Filomena Molder
Die Almosen der Zeit
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit: un corps à corps avec l’inconnu
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Marcus Quent
Verrinnen der Zeit und Glaube an die Welt
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Michael Heitz
Noch ein neuer Gott in Teilen
Donatien Grau, Pierre Guyotat
Conversation
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Discoteca Flaming Star
Ich erinnere mich… (Discoteca Flaming Star)
Mário Gomes
Brandsatz & Ästhetik
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...
Ich erinnere mich an gewellte goldene Kornfelder.
Ich erinnere mich an mich; in der Peripherie des Bildes.
Ich erinnere mich an die...
Der Post, den ich hiermit teile, hat mich leicht verstört: »Barbara ist Facebook vor 6 Jahren beigetreten«!
…rather alarms, to truth to arm her than enemies, and they have only this advantage to scape from being called ill things, that they are nothings…
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
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,...
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.