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

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 4

 

Artificial and Other Intelligences

Barbara Basting, 04.12.2019

Facebook’s picture tumbler is currently reminding me of my first visit to China a year ago. I was impressed: so...

Behind the Great Firewall

Barbara Basting, 26.10.2018

I sit in the lobby of a hotel in China where I am accommodated along with other guests of an...

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...

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...

Other columns
  • Future Pluperfect

    We are looking for relics of visions of the future in past image spaces, for the traces and signatures of something once imaginable and timelessly possible.

  • I remember

    I remember

    Following Georges Perec’s Memory 480: "I remember… (to be continued…)"…

  • Questionnaire

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

  • The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media

    The Transversal Shelf of Printed Books in Times of Accelerated Opaque Media

    Raucous time capsules, rare jewels, and indispensable bulky goods from all epochs, languages, and genres.

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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