Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
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
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Claire Fontaine
Vers une théorie du matérialisme magique
A. L. Kennedy
Was ist ein Autor?
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tombeau pour Guy Debord
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Jean-Luc Nancy
Nach den Avantgarden
Lars von Trier im Gespräch mit Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Umas Gesicht – Thurmans Stimme
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Christian Beetz, Hendrik Rohlf
Katalysatoren der Radikalisierung
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Zoran Terzić
Transplants politiques
Joseph Morder
Une Trinite de la Memoire
Zoran Terzić
Politische Transplantate
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Maël Renouard
Fragmente eines unendlichen Gedächtnisses
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Ann Cotten
Dialoge
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Jean-Luc Nancy
Je me souviens (Jean-Luc Nancy)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Ute Holl
Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Discoteca Flaming Star
Ich erinnere mich… (Discoteca Flaming Star)
What do I remember? My memories of my life have always been very limited. I only remember single fragments, good...
Ich erinnere mich an mein Exemplar von Alles kurz und klein, das weg ist, verschwunden! – wer erinnert sich, es...
A Little Paris Nightmare
I loved Paris, even as a little boy, long before I lived there. I was like Pinocchio...
DIAPHANES fragt nach Relikten von Zukunftsvisionen in den Bildräumen der Vergangenheit, nach Spuren und Signaturen eines einst Vorstellbaren und zeitlos Möglichen.
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
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,...
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.