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

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 4

 

Artificial and Other Intelligences

Barbara Basting, 04.12.2019

Facebook’s picture tumbler is currently reminding me of my first visit to China a year ago. I was impressed: so...

Behind the Great Firewall

Barbara Basting, 26.10.2018

I sit in the lobby of a hotel in China where I am accommodated along with other guests of an...

Facebook’s Just a Nail Studio

Barbara Basting, 10.04.2018

I noticed this pattern for fingernail decoration four years ago in the window of a “nail studio” in Salisbury, south-west...

12 May 2011 – 12 May 2017: On Non-Digital Storage Media

Barbara Basting, 24.03.2017

The Facebook algorithm has noticed that I have something to do with art and museums, and presents me with a...

Other columns
  • LISTMANIA

    LISTMANIA

    Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…

  • 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.

  • Questionnaire

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

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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