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Fiction

Let’s find the stage of human affairs

Marion Muller-Colard, Clémence Pollet

Hannah Arendt's Little Theater

“A story worth telling is a story with spectators to judge it.”

While about to finish her last book, the philosopher Hannah Arendt is disturbed by her stubborn alter ego, 9-year-old Little Hannah. Reluctantly, the old woman lets herself drag out onto the streets of New York and into constant conversation by the inquisitive little girl. They enter a little theatre, and together they watch mankind, society, politics, power evolve – and they also experience the role of Evil (in the person of a wolf and of numerous wooden puppets) and its...

Evil
thinking
acting
ethics
young readers

Current Texts

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

Pierre Guyotat

“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. 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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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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Current Texts

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

Current Texts

A. L. Kennedy

Upending meanings and rewriting sanity

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

ABO DE FR

Magazine Online

Autofiction—Metafiction

Monograph

»Ich bin nicht gut im Vergessen. Ich kann es überhaupt nicht«

Ein junger Deutscher in den sechziger Jahren schreibt hier, heimgesucht von einer übergroßen Sensibilität für die Allgegenwart der Vergangenheit. Geradezu körperlich trägt er in seiner eigenen Person die Unfähigkeit aus, zu vergessen, was er selbst nicht bewusst erlebt hat: Krieg und Vernichtung. Die stark autobiographisch geprägte Erzählung folgt den zahlreichen...

Reiner Schürmann

Ursprünge

Monograph

« Le rire est la seule chose qui reste après la catastrophe. »

Comme toute autobiographie qui se respecte, celle-ci fait de la naissance de son protagoniste un mythe fondateur : « Riez, non pas de joie comme si vous aviez entendu quelque chose de drôle, mais pour relâcher la tension abdominale », recommande un médecin mélancolique à la mère du futur George...

George Tabori

Autodafé

Monograph

Meine Mutter lacht

Ich bereite mich auf ihren Tod vor. Wie machst du das, fragt jemand. Ich versuche, mir mich ohne sie vorzustellen. Und ich denke, das wird gehen. Nicht für sie. Für mich. Oder das Gegenteil. Aber anscheinend kann man sich nicht wirklich vorbereiten, also vergeude ich meine Zeit. Sie hat schreckliche Lebenslust. Und du? Ich...

Chantal Akerman

Meine Mutter lacht

Monograph

»Die am weitesten zurückliegende Vergangenheit hat die größte Sprengkraft. Jede intensive Erinnerung grenzt an Gewalt.«

»Wenn man ein Buch öffnet, weiß man nicht, wohin man geht. Man lässt sich führen in Zeiten, an Orte, zu Gefühlen, mit denen man sich sonst nicht ohne weiteres eingelassen hätte. Überhaupt sind unsere Leben Irrpfade, die wir auf verschiedene Weisen rekapitulieren – je nachdem, zu welcher Zeit und mit...

Pascal Quignard

Die wandernden Schatten

Topics

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

Current Texts

Mário Gomes

“Poetry must be made by all. Not by one.”

“Nuestro Norte es el Sur” = “Our North is the South.”

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poetics
community
theory of architecture
South America
spatial turn
architecture
fiction

Current Texts

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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Current Texts

Maël Renouard

On Memory Atrophy

How can we remember the way we used to remember? OPEN
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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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Kim Gordon

Where do you go when you disappear? OPEN
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Books

Antonin Artaud, Stephen Barber (ed.): “Here Lies” preceded by “The Indian Culture”

Miriam Henke, Jérôme Meyer-Bisch: Lao-Tzu, or the Way of the Dragon

Gleb J. Albert (ed.), Nikolaj Evreinov, ...: The Steps of Nemesis

Antonin Artaud, Stephen Barber (ed.): Artaud 1937 Apocalypse

Tom McCarthy: Recessional—Or, the Time of the Hammer

Time Probe Zero Synthesis

DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 3

When to switch off? What to look for? How to write? Which lines to draw? Whence self-recognition? DIAPHANES 3—TIME PROBE ZERO SYNTHESIS

Where is the present when the computer pulses at the wrist every day, when we’re globally interconnected in real time but don’t take in our selves for a single moment, just bits and pieces, just snatching a few intensities, when neurons plus communication already makes a consciousness? Is it nothing but a hallucination, in permanent crisis? Does it stand still, get wider, poorer? How does the past change when systems record every second, saving them for the right moment or for...