I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
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
Emanuele Coccia
Le futur de la littérature
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philologie
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Michael F. Zimmermann
Courbet als Assyrer
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
Kai van Eikels
Macht kaputt, was Demokratie kaputt macht
Zoran Terzić
Die Verallgemeinerung des Menschen
Sandra Frimmel
Ich hasse die Avantgarde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tombeau pour Guy Debord
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Andreas L. Hofbauer
Joch
Michael Heitz
Wong Pings "Who’s the Daddy"
Alexander García Düttmann
Cold Distance
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Joseph Morder
Une Trinite de la Memoire
A.K. Kaiza
Eine kommentierte Geschichte Wakandas
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venedig, Lagos und der Raum dazwischen
Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau
On Realism
Jurij Pavlovich Annenkov
A Diary of my Encounters
Mário Gomes
The Poetics of Architecture
Dorothee Scheiffarth
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CLOUD NAMES
Trmasan Bruialesi
Lieber Paul 1
Tyler Coburn
Quaddie
John Donne
Paradox I
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...
La soif
Quand j’étais enfant, près de la maison ou j’habitais, il y avait une voie ferrée. Avant de m'endormir, j’entendais...
Gedanklich-sinnliche Küchenzettel, Aufzählungen und Auslesen…
Lärmende Zeitkapseln, rare Bijous, unverzichtbares Sperrgut aller Epochen, Sprachen und Genres.
…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.
“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...
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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.