Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Stellvertretende Abschaffung
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
A. L. Kennedy
Was ist ein Autor?
Mengia Tschalaer
Queer Spaces
Felix Stalder
Feedback als Authentitzität
Kai van Eikels
Macht kaputt, was Demokratie kaputt macht
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tombeau pour Guy Debord
Sandra Frimmel
Ich hasse die Avantgarde
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Axel Dielmann
Die Schneiderin
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Joch
Zoran Terzić
Politische Transplantate
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Maria Filomena Molder
Die Almosen der Zeit
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Marcus Quent
Verrinnen der Zeit und Glaube an die Welt
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Stephen Barber
Krieg aus Fragmenten: World Versus America
Maël Renouard
Modifications infimes et considérables
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venedig, Lagos und der Raum dazwischen
Bruce Bégout
L’homme de Venise
Marcus Quent
Ohne Halt
K.A.
Hermal
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
So wie geplant kommt es ja selten, meistens ergibt sich etwas halt so. Das ist weniger der Zustand der Welt...
Une Trinité de mémoire
Je me souviens de quelques lieux, de quelques parfums d’enfance. En Amérique du Sud, en Equateur, à...
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.
…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…
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
Der Post, den ich hiermit teile, hat mich leicht verstört: »Barbara ist Facebook vor 6 Jahren beigetreten«!
“So many egoists call themselves artists,” Rimbaud wrote to Paul Demeny on May 15, 1871. Even though that is not always obvious, ‘I’, the first person, is the most unknown person, a mystery that is constantly moving towards the other two, the second and third persons, a series of unfoldings and smatterings that eventually gelled as ‘Je est un autre’. That is why ‘apocryphal’ is a literarily irrelevant concept and ‘pseudo’ a symptom, the very proof that life, writing, is made up of echoes, which means that intrusions and thefts (Borges also discusses them) will always be the daily bread of those who write.
Words from others, words taken out of place and mutilated: here are the alms of time, that squanderer’s sole kindness. And so many others, mostly others who wrote, and many other pages, all of them apocryphal, all of them echoes, reflections. All this flows together into—two centuries...
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.