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. . . . . Charlemagne Rides through Paris . . . . . I remember . . . . . Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger . Fiktionen von Heimat . . . . . Artificial and Other Intelligences . . . . . Boutiques on the Bosporus . . . . . Jean-Luc Nancy . Zah Zuh . . . . . Je me souviens . . . . . Slavs and Tatars . Reverse Joy . . . . . Thomas Huber . Generation of the Lynn Hershman Antibody . . . . . . Xenolinguistics . . . . . Jochen Thermann . Der Hilfskoch . . . . . Angelika Meier . Wer ich wirklich bin . . . . . Zoran Terzić . Political Transplants . . . . . Helmut J. Schneider . Wie fern darf der Nächste sein? . . . . . Honoré Daumier: Don Quixote lisant . . . . . Behind the Great Firewall . . . . . Maria Filomena Molder . The Alms of Time . . . . . A.K. Kaiza . An Annotated History of Wakanda . . . . . Michele Pedrazzi . The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto . . . . . Jean-Luc Nancy . Zah Zuh . . . . . Michele Pedrazzi . The Next Bit. Hautnah am Körper des Unbekannten . . . . . A.K. Kaiza . Eine kommentierte Geschichte Wakandas . . . . . Jean-Luc Nancy . Zah Zuh . . . . . Zoran Terzić . Transplants politiques . . . . . Jochen Thermann . L’aide-cuisinier . . . . . Helmut J. Schneider . How Distant Can My Neighbor be? . . . . . Damian Christinger, Monica Ursina Jäger . Homeland Fictions . . . . . Jean-Luc Nancy . Zah Zuh . . . . . Jochen Thermann . The Assistant Chef . . . . . Slavs and Tatars . Reverse Joy . . . . . Zoran Terzić . Politische Transplantate . . . . . Maria Filomena Molder . Die Almosen der Zeit . . . . . Angelika Meier . Who I Really Am . . . . . Michele Pedrazzi . The Next Bit: un corps à corps avec l’inconnu

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 8/9
DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 4

Honoré Daumier: Don Quixote lisant

Miguel Tamen

Don Quixote lisant

DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 3
DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 1

 

Other columns
  • Future Pluperfect

    We are looking for relics of visions of the future in past image spaces, for the traces and signatures of something once imaginable and timelessly possible.

  • John Donne’s Paradoxes and Problems

    John Donne’s Paradoxes and Problems

    …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…

  • Questionnaire

    Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?

  • FICTIONARY

    FICTIONARY

    Not on any Knowlede’s service this register in progress seeks accumulating entries of imagenables: names, objects, imaginations… singularities, that neither have to be thought nor upon which must be speculated.

Magazine Special

Maria Filomena Molder

So many egoists call themselves artists…

“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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»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

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