Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
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
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Claire Fontaine
Vers une théorie du matérialisme magique
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
A. L. Kennedy
Qu’est-ce qu’un auteur ?
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
A. L. Kennedy
Was ist ein Autor?
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Lars von Trier im Gespräch mit Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
A.K. Kaiza
Eine kommentierte Geschichte Wakandas
Thomas Huber
Generation of the Lynn Hershman Antibody
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Helmut J. Schneider
Wie fern darf der Nächste sein?
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Marcus Quent
Verrinnen der Zeit und Glaube an die Welt
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Manuel Franquelo
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Bruce Bégout
L’homme de Venise
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
John Donne
Problem IX
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
John Donne
Paradox I
Peter Ott
Die monotheistische Zelle oder Berichte aus der Fiktion
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
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...
A Little Paris Nightmare
I loved Paris, even as a little boy, long before I lived there. I was like Pinocchio...
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
…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…
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und Genres.
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
J.G. Ballard’s self-declared ‘Immodest Proposal’ for a global war-alliance to exact the destruction of America demonstrates the provocatory zeal of his last fiction plans, as well as their enduring prescience. As Ballard emphasises several times in the World Versus America notebooks, he is utterly serious in his concerns and visions.
Although the Ballard estate declined permission for any images of pages from the World Versus America archival notebooks to accompany this essay, any member of the general public interested to do so can readily visit the British Library and view the notebooks in their entirety in the freely-accessible manuscripts collection there.
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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.