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

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 4
DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 3

Corporate Love

Gilles Rotzetter

Corporate Love

 

NEUN GRÜNDE GEGEN SCHACH

Pierre Lusson, Georges Perec, Jacques Roubaud, 03.07.2017

Es sei uns gestattet, hier einmal sämt­liche Gründe aufzuzählen, warum wir von Schach nichts halten.

1. Es ist ein...

SCHÖNE WORTE FÜR ABSCHEULICHE DINGE IN ZUFÄLLIGER REIHENFOLGE

Natascha Bub, 03.07.2017

Plörre
Smegma
Ohrwurm
Schlamassel
Kummerspeck
Weltschmerz
Gesöff
Fernweh
Lotterbett
Spelunke
Scharmützel
Donnerwetter
Schabracke
Mumpitz
Spatzenhirn
Lustmolch
Kaschemme
Spinatwachtel
Popanz

BIG BUGS

Beni Bischof, 24.03.2017

Forever!

Star

Shame!

Cheat

War

Wedding

Psych

Suicide

Dying!

Love

Other columns
  • John Donne’s Paradoxes and Problems

    John Donne’s Paradoxes and Problems

    …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…

  • L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée

    L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée

    L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée

  • Questionnaire

    Red oder Blue? Welche Götter? What’s wrong with reality? Nord oder Süd? Wie sterben? What is the problem with solutions?

  • FICTIONARY

    FICTIONARY

    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.

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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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

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