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

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DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 2

Is drama out cold? Is theatre?

Alexander García Düttmann

Can There Be a Society Without Ceremony or the Critical Question of Theatre

 

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...

Charlemagne Rides through Paris

Barbara Basting, 04.12.2019

Facebook’s algorithm has served up memories of my Turkish travels often enough, but now it’s taking countermeasures and suddenly presenting...

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...

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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