Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Barbara Vinken
Geistige Mütter
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Ersatzkaffeelesen
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Donatien Grau
Une vie en philologie
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Marlene Streeruwitz
L'auteur n'est pas l'auteure
Zoran Terzić
Die Verallgemeinerung des Menschen
Michael F. Zimmermann
Courbet als Assyrer
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Marlene Streeruwitz
Der Autor ist nicht die Autorin
Jean-Luc Nancy
Après les avant-gardes
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Sandra Frimmel
Ich hasse die Avantgarde
Lars von Trier in Conversation with Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Yoke
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Lars von Trier im Gespräch mit Mehdi Belhaj Kacem & Raphaëlle Milone
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger
Homeland Fictions
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit: un corps à corps avec l’inconnu
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Marcus Quent
Elapsing Time and Belief in the World
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Mário Gomes
Poetik der Architektur
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Diane Williams
Rums Bums auf der Treppe
Artur Zmijewski
Gespräch über ‚Glimpse‘
Discoteca Flaming Star
Ich erinnere mich… (Discoteca Flaming Star)
Andreas Reihse
LISTMANIA: GUANAJUATONOVIEMBRE
Dorothee Scheiffarth
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CLOUD NAMES
John Donne
Paradox I
What do I remember? My memories of my life have always been very limited. I only remember single fragments, good...
So wie geplant kommt es ja selten, meistens ergibt sich etwas halt so. Das ist weniger der Zustand der Welt...
Ich erinnere mich an gewellte goldene Kornfelder.
Ich erinnere mich an mich; in der Peripherie des Bildes.
Ich erinnere mich an die...
…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…
Der Post, den ich hiermit teile, hat mich leicht verstört: »Barbara ist Facebook vor 6 Jahren beigetreten«!
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und Genres.
Apfel oder Zitrone? Remembering, what do you hear? Wie sterben? Nord oder Süd? A question to which “yes” is always your answer?
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.