Marie Glassl, Sophie Lewis
Surrogate Abolition
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
I.V. Nuss
The Love in the Convex, in Absolute Roundness and the Sluttification of All Men West of the Bosporus
Johanna Went
I remember (Johanna Went)
Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, Richard Hell
"I’d rather live in a book"
Simon Critchley
Learning to Eat Time with One’s Ears
Dan-el Padilla Peralta
Junk Philology. An Anti-Commentary
Claire Fontaine
Towards a Theory of Magic Materialism
A. L. Kennedy
What is an Author?
Tom McCarthy
Toke My Asymptote – or, The Ecstatic Agony of Appearance
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 7
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Zoran Terzić
The Tautomaniac
Sandra Frimmel
I Hate the Avant-garde
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 6
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 5
Ines Kleesattel
Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below
Michael Heitz, Hendrik Rohlf
Uma’s Face—Thurman’s Voice
Angelika Meier
Who I Really Am
Jean-Luc Nancy
Zah Zuh
Maria Filomena Molder
The Alms of Time
A.K. Kaiza
An Annotated History of Wakanda
Stephen Barber
A War of Fragments: World Versus America
Barbara Basting
Der Algorithmus und ich 3
Emma Waltraud Howes
Questionnaire Emma Waltraud Howes
Ann Cotten
Dialogs
Stephen Barber
Futurama Nights, October 1978
Bruce Bégout
The Man from Venice
Eric Baudelaire
Abecedarium
Discoteca Flaming Star
Ich erinnere mich… (Discoteca Flaming Star)
John Donne
Paradox I
Oliver Hendricks
Human Oddities (Book)
Trmasan Bruialesi
Lieber Paul 1
It may be due to the simple design of this dust jacket, which gives no indication of genre, and to...
The Nonexistent Giotto
A picture may announce the future not in the sense that it refers to any future events...
Although contemporaries attested Romantic qualities to François Gérard’s Belisar, it didn’t appeal to the arch-Romantic Delacroix: “The fortune of a...
Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.
…rather alarms, to truth to arm her than enemies, and they have only this advantage to scape from being called ill things, that they are nothings…
Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…
Not on any Knowlede’s service this register in progress seeks accumulating entries of imagenables: names, objects, imaginations… singularities, that neither have to be thought nor upon which must be speculated.
Now the dead will no longer be buried, now this spectral city will become the site for execrations and lamentations, now time itself will disintegrate and void itself, now human bodies will expectorate fury and envision their own transformation or negation, now infinite and untold catastrophes are imminently on their way —ready to cross the bridge over the river Aire and engulf us all — in this winter of discontent, just beginning at this dead-of-night instant before midnight, North-Sea ice-particles already crackling in the air and the last summer long-over, the final moment of my seventeenth birthday, so we have to go, the devil is at our heels… And now we’re running at full-tilt through the centre of the city, across the square beneath the Purbeck-marble edifice of the Queen’s Hotel, down towards the dark arches under the railway tracks, the illuminated sky shaking, the air fissured with beating cacophony,...
My language
English
Selected content
English
»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
Dire works on the bogus regime—not just of art—but endowed with wit, beauty and irresistible fetish character.