Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
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
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
A. L. Kennedy
Was ist ein Autor?
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – oder: die ekstatische Agonie des Erscheinens
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Jean-Luc Nancy
Après les avant-gardes
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Joch
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Axel Dielmann
Die Schneiderin
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Hautnah am Körper des Unbekannten
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Joseph Morder
Une Trinite de la Memoire
Manuel Franquelo
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Marcus Quent
Verrinnen der Zeit und Glaube an die Welt
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Diane Williams
Rums Bums auf der Treppe
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
Hendrik Rohlf
Richard Prince (Book)
What do I remember? My memories of my life have always been very limited. I only remember single fragments, good...
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...
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.
…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…
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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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.