Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
I.V. Nuss
Die Liebe im Konvexen, in der totalen Rundung und zur Slutifizierung aller Männer westlich des Bosporus
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – oder: die ekstatische Agonie des Erscheinens
Zoran Terzić
Die Verallgemeinerung des Menschen
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Joch
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
A.K. Kaiza
Eine kommentierte Geschichte Wakandas
Manuel Franquelo
An interview with Manuel Franquelo
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Nicole Bachmann
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Alexander García Düttmann
Kann es eine Gesellschaft ohne Feier geben oder Die kritische Frage des Theaters
Artur Zmijewski
Gespräch über ‚Glimpse‘
John Donne
Paradox I
Mário Gomes
Brandsatz & Ästhetik
Peter Ott
The Monotheistic Cell Or Reports from Fiction
Oliver Hendricks
Human Oddities (Book)
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Facebooks Algorithmus hat mir oft genug Erinnerungen an meine Türkei-Reisen serviert, gibt nun aber Gegensteuer und präsentiert plötzlich ganz andere...
Diese Muster für Fingernagelschmuck fielen mir vor vier Jahren im Fenster eines »Nailstudios« in Salisbury, Südwestengland, auf. Nailstudios begannen mich...
Ich bin nicht mehr sehr zufrieden mit Facebook. Denn in jüngerer Zeit scheint der Algorithmus dort ein totales Willkürregime zu...
Nicht im Dienste irgendeines Wissens oder Spekulierens will dieses fortlaufende Register Eintragungen über Vorstellbares ansammeln: Namen, Objekte, Phänomene, Singularitäten.
…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…
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
In der Folge von Georges Perecs Erinnerung 480: "Ich erinnere mich… (Fortsetzung folgt…)"
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...
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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.