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Literatur

Alban Nikolai Herbst

Die Brüste der Béart

Ich bleibe verloren ins Spiel Deiner Waden, / verloren in Deine Erscheinung, Béart / Wie einer durch die Stadt schweift / und sieht nur die Füße der Frauen, / weil ein jedes Gesicht eine Welt ist, / die wir in Wahrheit nicht wollen, / die sich in Wahrheit nicht will, / die sich in Wahrheit gefüllt will mit andrem / Selbstbild als Fremdbild
  • Körper
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  • Gegenwartsliteratur
  • Dichtung
  • Minne

 

Themen

 

The world is all that is the case
The world is all that is the case

Françoise Armengaud, Annabelle Buxton

Wittgenstein’s Rhinoceros

The two young men meet up at the Cambridge railroad station. While waiting for the train, they browse the shelves of the station bookshop. All of a sudden, Wittgenstein grabs Pinsent’s arm: “Look at the title of this book!” “What a coincidence!” exclaims Pinsent, “It is perfect for you!” Both start to laugh. They purchase the novel of a famous English detective novelist entitled A Rhinoceros in the Library. Wittgenstein is very excited. “David, listen carefully,” he says to Pinsent. “I already have three things...
  • Junge Leser
  • Logik
  • Denken
  • Wittgenstein
Aktuelle Texte
Ein Roadtrip ohne Road

Mário Gomes

Ein Roadtrip ohne Road

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  • Intellektuelle
  • Südamerika
  • Raumtheorie
  • Poetik
  • Gemeinschaft
  • Architekturtheorie
  • Architektur
Aktuelle Texte

Stephen Barber

Twenty-four hours in state of unconsciousness

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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