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Fiction

The matrix for »Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats«

Pierre Guyotat

The Prison

“This text was written at the end of 1962, after my return from Algeria. For me the text is the matrix for Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats.” P.G.

Our prison was encircled by marshland where birds and sick dogs came to die. At night we could hear their cries and death rattles. We could see nothing of the town except its smoke and its dying animals. Prisoners on the second floor watched those washed-out cats and dogs die, lying down then struggling in the mud like birds caught in lime; famished cats jumped on those with gaping wounds and tore them open. From the cellar where we had been...

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war experience
war

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A. L. Kennedy

When it all burns you’ll know – a writer was there at the first… ABO DE FR

Stephen Barber

Twenty-four hours in state of unconsciousness

Now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself… ABO

Diane Williams

How about some string?

I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.” ABO DE

Stephen Barber

J.G. Ballard’s self-declared ‘Immodest Proposal’ for a global war-alliance to exact the destruction of America demonstrates the provocatory zeal of his last fiction plans, as well as their enduring prescience. OPEN
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Soham Gupta

When life’s hard, time’s a motherfucker going slow

In his photographs and texts, Calcutta-based Soham Gupta forces the tension that arises between fiction and real-life conditions in as yet unseen ways.

ABO DE FR

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Kim Gordon

It was another 75° day in LA.

Where do you go when you disappear?

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Magazine Online

Autofiction—Metafiction

Monograph

Eine Geschichte von Niedergang und Neuanfang

Lässt es sich in einem Totenhaus nicht vielleicht noch am besten leben?

Angelika Meier

Die Auflösung des Hauses Decker

Monograph

»Es gibt nichts zu erzählen!«

»›Es gibt nichts zu erzählen‹, sagte meine Mutter, und es ist dieses Nichts, an dem ich mich abarbeite.«

Chantal Akerman

Meine Mutter lacht

Monograph

Eine schonungslose Familien-Live-Show

»Für einen Schriftsteller ist die Familie eine wahre Goldgrube: anstatt seinen Erbteil einzufordern, verzichtet der Autor lieber darauf und lässt...

Hervé Guibert

Meine Eltern

Monograph

“Obsessed with buffering”

In this essay, based on a talk he gave in Zurich, award-winning British novelist Tom McCarthy ("Remainder", "C", "Satin Island")... ABO

Tom McCarthy

Recessional—Or, the Time of the Hammer

Topics

Halluzinatorische Chroniken New Yorks
Reportagen, Fiktionen, Wirklichkeiten der Hauptstadt des 20. Jahrhunderts
- USA
- noir fiction
- reportage
- New York
- atomic age

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I.V. Nuss

Pregnancy is the weirdest condition

The seahorse is the chosen metaphor for pregnant trans men

ABO DE

contemporary literature
motherhood
homosexuality

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Raphaëlle Milone

He would say “Never work!”

Old-school publisher, avant-garde dandy, undisputed expert on the global history of Dada: Raphaëlle Milone paints an intimate but unsparing portrait of a man who belonged perhaps to a dying breed but is still remembered vividly.

ABO FR

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Dodie Bellamy

A stupid tweet by a nobody, meant as a parody, somehow goes viral and the internet offers up death threats. OPEN
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Maria Filomena Molder

So many egoists call themselves artists…

Words are human things; a great obscurity saturates them… OPEN
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Maël Renouard

On Memory Atrophy

How can we remember the way we used to remember? OPEN
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Johannes Binotto

Where words are uttered, the taming is shrewed. OPEN
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Artaud’s Last Unpublished Work

Antonin Artaud, Stephen Barber (ed.)

Watchfiends and Rack Screams

Antonin Artaud’s last large-scale work, published in its complete form in English for the first time. Foreword by John Zorn.

I had a dream last night, scrambled, yes indeed, for a scrambled dream it sure was scrambled. But so meaningful on the other hand, so meaningful. Jean Dequeker was dragging himself along the earth with short and truncated legs, and he said: Am I a beast, a pebble, a branch or a meat stall? But after all what is a tree? What is a tree? Madame Dequeker was behind a cage with her stomach pressed against the flange of this...

literature
poetry
autobiography
Modernism
avant-garde

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Axel Dielmann

“Can you imagine something like that?”

The curators were probably worried that someone would stumble carelessly up the stairs while looking at the exhibits… OPEN
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The abandonment of the centrality of the subject

Donatien Grau

Philology keeps it possible to open a space for the minority. OPEN
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The limp, voluptuous decadence of the place

Bruce Bégout

I’m not going to talk about my profession here. ABO FR DE

Jean-Luc Nancy

Ζένοι και Zah και Zuh

αποξενωμένοι αποκλίνοντες από ποιο αόρατο οικείο; OPEN
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Dietmar Dath

Do you want to believe in language?

The index calculates everything. Announcements of awards, mostly false, light up then die. His dopamine balance feeds the list. Limbic structures support it. Brain means house, should have windows.

Asleep, Patrick sees what he doesn’t believe while he’s awake.

The index calculates everything. Announcements of awards, mostly false, light up then die. His dopamine balance feeds the list. Limbic structures support it. Brain means house, should have windows. But they’re slow shutter pictures of the past.

Five minutes past four, Patrick is woken up by a noise. He’s lying in the small room. Renate is sleeping in the big one.

“Maybe I’ll get an idea during the night,” he had justified his move to the couch, “Then I’ll have to send it to them. We’re sending the thing off tomorrow.” He was afraid of saying what he knew about Kerstin in his sleep, while lying next to Renate. In the darkness he feels the room buzzing at him. His brain answers the hum, singing sugar and protein, talking perineural network that controls the form and function of the synapses which guide all...

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