I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Donatien Grau, James Spooner
Afropunk Philology
Sina Dell’Anno
Punk / Philology
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
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
Mehdi Belhaj Kacem, Philippe Sollers
What is the Meaning of the Avant-garde’s Death?
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Axel Dielmann
The Dressmaker
Michael Heitz
Wong Ping’s "Who’s the Daddy"
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Jochen Thermann
The Assistant Chef
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Helmut J. Schneider
How Distant Can My Neighbor be?
Nicole Bachmann
Questionnaire Nicole Bachmann
Dietmar Dath
Your Sprache Never Was
Dieter Mersch
Digital Criticism
Alexander García Düttmann
Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Diane Williams
Bang Bang on the Stair
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Luc Meresma
Capt. Norman MacMillan (Book)
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
It may be due to the simple design of this dust jacket, which gives no indication of genre, and to...
The Nonexistent Giotto
A picture may announce the future not in the sense that it refers to any future events...
Although contemporaries attested Romantic qualities to François Gérard’s Belisar, it didn’t appeal to the arch-Romantic Delacroix: “The fortune of a...
The post I’m now sharing was somewhat unsettling: “Barbara joined Facebook 6 years ago!”
…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…
L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée
Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…
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.
Externalized memory had always proceeded by contractions, summaries, reductions, selections, breaks in flow, as well as by organization, classification, boiling down. Card catalogues reduced thousands of works to a few key notions; tables of contents contracted the hundreds of pages in a given book. The sign itself was the first abbreviation of experience. An epic stitched of words was an abbreviation of the war, the long years of which were reduced to a few nights of recitation; the written text that recorded the epic was a contraction of the oral narration which pushed aside its sensory richness, melody, life in a thousand details. In accumulating, every level of abbreviation reconstituted an infinite flow, a new dilation that would be contracted in its turn. From the plurality of pages to the index and the table of contents; from the plurality of books to card catalogues.
The abbreviated elements were further arranged, situated...
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.