Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
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
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Donatien Grau
A Life in Philology
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Zoran Terzić
The Grand Generalization
Kai van Eikels
Do in What's Doing, Democracy in!
Felix Stalder
Feedback as Authenticity
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem
Tomb for Guy Debord
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Hans Block, Moritz Riesewieck
What we don’t see
Johannes Binotto
Shrewing the Tame
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Sina Dell’Anno
Oratio Soluta
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Michele Pedrazzi
The Next Bit. Corpo a corpo con l’ignoto
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 4
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Fritz Senn
Das Leben besteht aus gestrandeten Konjunktiven
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Elena Vogman
Dynamography, or Andrei Bely’s Rhythmic Gesture
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Wolfgang Plöger
After This Comes That Before That Comes This
Maël Renouard
The Twilight of Classification?
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Artur Zmijewski
Conversation on “Glimpse”
Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger
Venice, Lagos, and the Spaces in between
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Ute Holl
Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile
Andreas Reihse
LISTMANIA: GUANAJUATONOVIEMBRE
Hendrik Rohlf
Richard Prince (Book)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Facebook’s picture tumbler is currently reminding me of my first visit to China a year ago. I was impressed: so...
Facebook’s algorithm has served up memories of my Turkish travels often enough, but now it’s taking countermeasures and suddenly presenting...
I sit in the lobby of a hotel in China where I am accommodated along with other guests of an...
I’m no longer very happy with Facebook. Recently the algorithm seems to be taking the platform into total despotism. And...
Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
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.
J.G. Ballard’s self-declared ‘Immodest Proposal’ for a global war-alliance to exact the destruction of America demonstrates the provocatory zeal of his last fiction plans, as well as their enduring prescience. As Ballard emphasises several times in the World Versus America notebooks, he is utterly serious in his concerns and visions.
Although the Ballard estate declined permission for any images of pages from the World Versus America archival notebooks to accompany this essay, any member of the general public interested to do so can readily visit the British Library and view the notebooks in their entirety in the freely-accessible manuscripts collection there.
My language
English
Selected content
English
»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.