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
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Claire Fontaine
Vers une théorie du matérialisme magique
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
A. L. Kennedy
Qu’est-ce qu’un auteur ?
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Sandra Frimmel
Ich hasse die Avantgarde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
Was wir nicht sehen
Christian Beetz, Hendrik Rohlf
Katalysatoren der Radikalisierung
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
A.K. Kaiza
Eine kommentierte Geschichte Wakandas
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Maël Renouard
Modifications infimes et considérables
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Jean-Luc Nancy
Je me souviens (Jean-Luc Nancy)
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
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.
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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,...
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...
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.