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

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 4

 

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...

12 May 2011 – 12 May 2017: On Non-Digital Storage Media

Barbara Basting, 24.03.2017

The Facebook algorithm has noticed that I have something to do with art and museums, and presents me with a...

Other columns
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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