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

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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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