Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
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
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Marlene Streeruwitz
Der Autor ist nicht die Autorin
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tombeau pour Guy Debord
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Alexander García Düttmann
Kalte Distanz
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Zoran Terzić
Politische Transplantate
Jochen Thermann
Der Hilfskoch
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Maël Renouard
Modifications infimes et considérables
Marcus Quent
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venedig, Lagos und der Raum dazwischen
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Peter Ott
Die monotheistische Zelle oder Berichte aus der Fiktion
Michael Heitz
Another New God in Parts
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...
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
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…
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
Now the dead will no longer be buried, now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself, now human bodies will expectorate fury and envision their own transformation or negation, now infinite and untold catastrophes are imminently on their way —ready to cross the bridge over the river Aire and engulf us all — in this winter of discontent, just beginning at this dead-of-night instant before midnight, North-Sea ice-particles already crackling in the air and the last summer long-over, the final moment of my seventeenth birthday, so we have to go, the devil is at our heels… And now we’re running at full-tilt through the centre of the city, across the square beneath the Purbeck-marble edifice of the Queen’s Hotel, down towards the dark arches under the railway tracks, the illuminated sky shaking, the air fissured with beating cacophony,...
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.