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
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – oder: die ekstatische Agonie des Erscheinens
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
Wofür steht der Tod der Avantgarden?
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Michael Heitz
Wong Pings "Who’s the Daddy"
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Fiktionen von Heimat
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Zoran Terzić
Political Transplants
Maria Filomena Molder
Die Almosen der Zeit
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Manuel Franquelo
Manuel Franquelo im Gespräch
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
John Donne
Paradox I
Damian Christinger
Huelsenbeck (Book)
Michael Heitz
Another New God in Parts
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Es mag der schlichten Gestaltung dieses Buchumschlags geschuldet sein, der keine Auskunft über Genre und Inhalt gibt, und der in...
Der nichtexistente Giotto
Ein Bild mag die Zukunft weniger im Sinne einer Bezugnahme auf ein zukünftiges Ereignis ankündigen, als vielmehr...
Obwohl die Zeitgenossen François Gérards Belisar romantische Qualitäten attestierten, gefiel er dem Erzromantiker Delacroix nicht: »Das Geschick eines großen Kriegers,...
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
…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…
“So many egoists call themselves artists,” Rimbaud wrote to Paul Demeny on May 15, 1871. Even though that is not always obvious, ‘I’, the first person, is the most unknown person, a mystery that is constantly moving towards the other two, the second and third persons, a series of unfoldings and smatterings that eventually gelled as ‘Je est un autre’. That is why ‘apocryphal’ is a literarily irrelevant concept and ‘pseudo’ a symptom, the very proof that life, writing, is made up of echoes, which means that intrusions and thefts (Borges also discusses them) will always be the daily bread of those who write.
Words from others, words taken out of place and mutilated: here are the alms of time, that squanderer’s sole kindness. And so many others, mostly others who wrote, and many other pages, all of them apocryphal, all of them echoes, reflections. All this flows together into—two centuries...
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.