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
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Zoran Terzić
Die Verallgemeinerung des Menschen
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – oder: die ekstatische Agonie des Erscheinens
Marlene Streeruwitz
Der Autor ist nicht die Autorin
Kai van Eikels
Macht kaputt, was Demokratie kaputt macht
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tombeau pour Guy Debord
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Christian Beetz, Hendrik Rohlf
Katalysatoren der Radikalisierung
Axel Dielmann
Die Schneiderin
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Jochen Thermann
Der Hilfskoch
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Artur Zmijewski
Gespräch über ‚Glimpse‘
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Diane Williams
Rums Bums auf der Treppe
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Hendrik Rohlf
Richard Prince (Book)
K.A.
Hermal
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Der nichtexistente Giotto
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Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
In der Folge von Georges Perecs Erinnerung 480: "Ich erinnere mich… (Fortsetzung folgt…)"
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
…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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»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.