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

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Luzia Gast, 09.06.2023

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  • Questionnaire

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

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  • FICTIONARY

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Magazine Special
From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

From xenolinguistics to cephalo­pods

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  • science fiction
  • communication
  • semiotics and semiology
  • utopia
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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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