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

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Artificial and Other Intelligences

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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...

Boutiques on the Bosporus

Barbara Basting, 10.04.2018

I’m no longer very happy with Facebook. Recently the algorithm seems to be taking the platform into total despotism. And...

12 Feb 2011 — 12 Feb 2017

Barbara Basting, 24.03.2017

Facebook recently wanted to make merry with me. To this aim it posted an entry on my notice board, which...

Other columns
  • Questionnaire

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

  • I remember

    I remember

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

  • 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.

  • LISTMANIA

    LISTMANIA

    Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…

Magazine Special
From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

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