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Fiction

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

Soham Gupta

Angst

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.

Through the grayness of this concrete city, streams of tin-box vehicles flow ahead languidly – and like at a river’s delta, distributaries of little hatchbacks and dented yellow taxis branch off from the main road, spreading in varied directions. From your roof, you can see the whole city, you can feel it’s pulse – yet, there is such a strange silence around you, it’s as if the noise below is far, far away, so far that you are actually longing...

ABO DE FR

Current Texts

Maël Renouard

On Memory Atrophy

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

Current Texts

Kim Gordon

It was another 75° day in LA.

Where do you go when you disappear?

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Current Texts

Pierre Guyotat

The matrix for »Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats«

“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.

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war
war experience

Magazine Online

Autofiction—Metafiction

Monograph

»Es begann am Arsch der Welt.«

Ich meine immer noch Ledernacht zu hören, den alten deutschen Juden, wie er behauptet, Christus sei nicht gekreuzigt, sondern mit Schuhabsätzen zermatscht worden, wodurch jegliche Wiederauferstehung ziemlich unwahrscheinlich werde. Sobald er betrunken war, rief er von einem Ende der Straße zum anderen, von einem Ende des Viertels zum anderen seine Überzeugung...

Louis Calaferte

Requiem für die Schuldlosen

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

Curriculum Vitae in Pictures

Das Fotobuch »Kracauer. Fotoarchiv« zeigt bisher unbekannte fotografische Materialien aus dem Nachlass des Soziologen, Feuilletonisten und Filmtheoretikers Siegfried Kracauer: Portraits,...

Maria Zinfert (ed.)

Kracauer. Fotoarchiv

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

Topics

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

Current Texts

Johannes Binotto

Language can never be private

Where words are uttered, the taming is shrewed.

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feminism
subjectification
Shakespeare
theatre / drama
language
gender

Current Texts

Donatien Grau

The abandonment of the centrality of the subject

Philology keeps it possible to open a space for the minority.

OPEN
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Current Texts

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

Maria Filomena Molder

So many egoists call themselves artists…

Words are human things; a great obscurity saturates them… OPEN
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A. L. Kennedy

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

Rolf Bossart, Milo Rau

We are bodies. It makes no sense to debate this. OPEN
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Books

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

Tatiana Boyko, Marion Kadi, ...: Newton and the Club of Astronomers

Born too late to see the war, too soon to forget it.

Reiner Schürmann

Origins

Why this past? Why is this past mine? A past which I did not even know?

"This is a book about the power that a past War holds over a German growing up in the 1950s and 1960s: born too late to see that war and too early to forget it. The narrative shows how painfully public events — the shadows, rather, of events gone by — intrude upon a life and shape it. The English translation appears at a moment when most of the key issues have radically changed. Germany has signed what amounts to a...

memory
1968
homosexuality
autobiography
emigration

Current Texts

Zoran Terzić

Everything new is a pose in the alcoves of capital

In the post-avant-garde era we’re all either in the vanguard or asleep in the lap of capital. In this sense everybody is avant-garde—or nobody. OPEN
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Jean-Luc Nancy

غریبه‌ها غریبه‌ها

ازخودبیگانه‌ ها راه‌ گم‌کرده‌ ها از کدامین اصل نامرئی؟ OPEN
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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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Jochen Thermann

I really should not have hired him…

Waldemar—well, that was not actually his name… ABO DE FR

Current Texts

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

Current Texts

Tom McCarthy

Ecstasy of inauthenticity

The ironic self-awareness of the poet can only be that of his own inauthenticity, repeated or fed back into itself at increasingly conscious levels, and ‘to know inauthenticity is not the same as to be authentic’.

The question of authenticity and I go back some way; we’re old sparring partners – frenemies. It’s been a fraught relationship, shot through with paradox and misconstruing. My first novel, Remainder, does turn around its protagonist’s obsession with becoming ‘real’, inhabiting his era or his city, building, skin, movements and gestures in a ‘first-hand’ or ‘authentic’ way, an obsession which he carries to the point of murder. Yet the pleasure of seeing this book receiving glowing press reviews that praised it for its ‘originality’ and ‘true’-ness was tinged with an awareness of something being odd or ‘off’, since Remainder is in fact the most un-original of novels, a novel about non-originality and simulacra that’s quite blatantly composed of set tropes and constructed situations reprised and, only slightly modified, replayed from sources ranging from Ballard’s Crash and Beckett’s Godot back to Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (Uncle Toby’s domestic re-stagings of battle terrains)...