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

 

I remember

Johanna Went, 08.06.2021

I remember during the frozen Tokyo winter of 1997: I took long walks in the dead of night through the...

I remember

Fritz Senn, 27.10.2018

So wie geplant kommt es ja selten, meistens ergibt sich etwas halt so. Das ist weniger der Zustand der Welt...

Je me souviens

Joseph Morder, 07.04.2018

Une Trinité de mémoire

Je me souviens de quelques lieux, de quelques parfums d’enfance. En Amérique du Sud, en Equateur, à...

Other columns
Magazine Special
From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

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  • semiotics and semiology
  • utopia
  • communication
  • linguistics
  • science fiction
  • communication media
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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