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

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SCHÖNE WORTE FÜR ABSCHEULICHE DINGE IN ZUFÄLLIGER REIHENFOLGE

Natascha Bub, 03.07.2017

Plörre
Smegma
Ohrwurm
Schlamassel
Kummerspeck
Weltschmerz
Gesöff
Fernweh
Lotterbett
Spelunke
Scharmützel
Donnerwetter
Schabracke
Mumpitz
Spatzenhirn
Lustmolch
Kaschemme
Spinatwachtel
Popanz

TWELVE DRUMMERS DRUMMING

Hanno Leichtmann, 24.03.2017

1. Ringo Starr
2. Mike D.
3. Roland TR 808
4. Jaki Liebezeit
5. Paul Lovens
6. Anthony Williams

GUANAJUATONOVIEMBRE

Andreas Reihse, 24.03.2017

Setlist:
1 Luminous Procuress
2 Zero
3 Brass Canon
4 Mexican Tea Party
5 Jaguar
6 New Earth
7...

Other columns
  • 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.

  • The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media

    The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media

    Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.

  • I remember

    I remember

    Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…

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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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

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