Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Felix Stalder
Feedback als Authentitzität
Marlene Streeruwitz
Der Autor ist nicht die Autorin
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Jean-Luc Nancy
Après les avant-gardes
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Grabmal für Guy Debord
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tombeau pour Guy Debord
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Axel Dielmann
Die Schneiderin
Angelika Meier
Wer ich wirklich bin
Zoran Terzić
Politische Transplantate
Jochen Thermann
Der Hilfskoch
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Manuel Franquelo
Manuel Franquelo im Gespräch
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Stephen Barber
I remember (Stephen Barber)
Andreas Reihse
LISTMANIA: GUANAJUATONOVIEMBRE
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
Kommt ein Polizist zu einem Mann, der beschuldigt wird, seinen kleinen Sohn zu Tode geschüttelt zu haben. Wie ist denn das passiert?, will der Polizist wissen. So!, gibt der Mann...
In einem Onlineforum, das sich mit dem Umzug ins 40 Lichtjahre von uns entfernte Planeten-system TRAPPIST-1 beschäftigt, antwortet mir kürzlich einer, als ich anmerke, dass es ohnehin egal sei, auf...
This book told me just what I had to know before I flew. Flying came more easily and I mastered its intricacies as quickly as my ideas come up during...
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
…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…
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,...
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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.