Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Marlene Streeruwitz
Der Autor ist nicht die Autorin
Zoran Terzić
Die Verallgemeinerung des Menschen
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Sandra Frimmel
Ich hasse die Avantgarde
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Axel Dielmann
Die Schneiderin
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the tame
Christian Beetz, Hendrik Rohlf
Katalysatoren der Radikalisierung
Zoran Terzić
Politische Transplantate
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit: un corps à corps avec l’inconnu
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Hautnah am Körper des Unbekannten
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Nicole Bachmann
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Ann Cotten
Dialoge
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
Über Realismus
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venedig, Lagos und der Raum dazwischen
Alexander García Düttmann
Kann es eine Gesellschaft ohne Feier geben oder Die kritische Frage des Theaters
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 2
Luc Meresma
Capt. Norman MacMillan (Book)
K.A.
Hermal
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,...
In der Folge von Georges Perecs Erinnerung 480: "Ich erinnere mich… (Fortsetzung folgt…)"
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und Genres.
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
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...
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.