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
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
Felix Stalder
Feedback als Authentitzität
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Joch
Lars von Trier im Gespräch mit Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Jochen Thermann
Der Hilfskoch
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Maël Renouard
Modifications infimes et considérables
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
Über Realismus
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Alexander García Düttmann
Kann es eine Gesellschaft ohne Feier geben oder Die kritische Frage des Theaters
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 1
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
What do I remember? My memories of my life have always been very limited. I only remember single fragments, good...
So wie geplant kommt es ja selten, meistens ergibt sich etwas halt so. Das ist weniger der Zustand der Welt...
Une Trinité de mémoire
Je me souviens de quelques lieux, de quelques parfums d’enfance. En Amérique du Sud, en Equateur, à...
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
Der Post, den ich hiermit teile, hat mich leicht verstört: »Barbara ist Facebook vor 6 Jahren beigetreten«!
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.”
“No,” he said, “but I see you have string!”
“If this comes into motion—” I said, “you should use a rope.”
“Any poison ivy on that? ” he asked me, and I told him my rope had been in the barn peacefully for years.
He took a length of it to the bedside table. He had no concept for what wood could endure.
“Table must have broken when I lashed it onto the truck,” he said.
And, when he was moving the sewing machine, he let the cast iron wheels—bang, bang on the stair.
I had settled down to pack up the flamingo cookie jar, the cutlery, and the cookware, but stopped briefly, for how many times do you catch sudden sight of something heartfelt?
I saw our milk cows in their slow...
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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.