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
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – oder: die ekstatische Agonie des Erscheinens
Zoran Terzić
Die Verallgemeinerung des Menschen
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Claire Fontaine
Vers une théorie du matérialisme magique
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
Wofür steht der Tod der Avantgarden?
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Grabmal für Guy Debord
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Michael Heitz
Wong Pings "Who’s the Daddy"
Alexander García Düttmann
Kalte Distanz
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Zoran Terzić
Politische Transplantate
Helmut J. Schneider
Wie fern darf der Nächste sein?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Manuel Franquelo
Manuel Franquelo im Gespräch
Marcus Quent
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Peter Ott
Die monotheistische Zelle oder Berichte aus der Fiktion
The Three Marias is a highly interesting work of feminist literature, although it’s now largely forgotten outside of its native Portugal. In the early 70s, while the country was still...
Bearded Ladies, Dwarfs and Giants, Hermaphrodites, Siamese Twins (see Heng and Chang on the book cover), the Mule-headed Lady, The Serpent-Woman, The Amazing Half-Boy (famous for his appearance in...
In einem Onlineforum, das sich mit dem Umzug ins 40 Lichtjahre von uns entfernte Planeten-system TRAPPIST-1 beschäftigt, antwortet mir kürzlich einer, als ich anmerke, dass es ohnehin egal sei, auf...
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
…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…
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
“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...
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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.