I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Kai van Eikels
Macht kaputt, was Demokratie kaputt macht
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Grabmal für Guy Debord
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Nicole Bachmann
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Alexander García Düttmann
Kann es eine Gesellschaft ohne Feier geben oder Die kritische Frage des Theaters
Mário Gomes
Brandsatz & Ästhetik
Trmasan Bruialesi
Lieber Paul 1
Jean-Luc Nancy
Je me souviens (Jean-Luc Nancy)
What do I remember? My memories of my life have always been very limited. I only remember single fragments, good...
Ich erinnere mich an mein Exemplar von Alles kurz und klein, das weg ist, verschwunden! – wer erinnert sich, es...
Ich erinnere mich an gewellte goldene Kornfelder.
Ich erinnere mich an mich; in der Peripherie des Bildes.
Ich erinnere mich an die...
…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…
Der Post, den ich hiermit teile, hat mich leicht verstört: »Barbara ist Facebook vor 6 Jahren beigetreten«!
DIAPHANES fragt nach Relikten von Zukunftsvisionen in den Bildräumen der Vergangenheit, nach Spuren und Signaturen eines einst Vorstellbaren und zeitlos Möglichen.
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
“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.