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

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 5

Blood!

Ines Kleesattel

Art, Girls, and Aesthetic Freedom Down Below

 

Luzia Gast, 09.06.2023

Nicht zuletzt die 2016 abgeschlossene Restaurierung hatte die These gestützt, dass es sich bei Hieronymus Boschs venezianischem Triptychon um die...

Drag-nets

Luc Meresma, 26.10.2018

It may be due to the simple design of this dust jacket, which gives no indication of genre, and to...

Honoré Daumier: Don Quixote lisant

Miguel Tamen, 10.04.2018

The Nonexistent Giotto
A picture may announce the future not in the sense that it refers to any future events...

BELISAR by François Gérard

Christine Tauber, 13.12.2017

Although contemporaries attested Romantic ­qualities to François Gérard’s Belisar, it didn’t appeal to the arch-Romantic Delacroix: “The fortune of 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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