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

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Magazine Special
From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

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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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