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Mama Say Make I Dey Go, She Dey My Back

Jelili Atiku, Damian Christinger

Mama Say Make I Dey Go, She Dey My Back

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  • feminism
  • spiritism
  • performance
  • Africa
  • colonialism
  • ritual
  • ceremony
  • body
Sex creates love and love creates sex
Sex creates love and love creates sex

Dennis Cooper, Donatien Grau, ...

"I’d rather live in a book"

I think love can take care of itself. It can be a subject in your writing, but love is part of life and writing is part of life. They’re all intermingled. I don’t think there’s a big distinction. I don’t think there’s much of a distinction between love and sex either. Sex creates love and love creates sex.
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  • philology
  • music
The matrix for »Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats«
The matrix for »Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats«

Pierre Guyotat

The Prison

Our prison was encircled by marshland where birds and sick dogs came to die. At night we could hear their cries and death rattles. We could see nothing of the town except its smoke and its dying animals. Prisoners on the second floor watched those washed-out cats and dogs die, lying down then struggling in the mud like birds caught in lime; famished cats jumped on those with gaping wounds and tore them open. From the cellar where we had been...
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  • war experience
  • war
Fiction

Diane Williams

How about some string?

I said “Would you like a rope? You know that haul you have is not secured properly.”
“No,” he said, “but I see you have string!”
“If this comes into motion—” I said, “you should use a rope.”
“Any poison ivy on that? ” he asked me, and I told him my rope had been in the barn peacefully for years.
He took a length of it to the bedside table. He had no concept for what wood could endure.
“Table must have broken when I lashed it onto the truck,” he said.
And, when he was moving the sewing machine, he let the cast iron wheels—bang, bang on the stair.
I had settled down to pack up the flamingo cookie jar, the cutlery, and the cookware, but stopped briefly, for how many times do you catch sudden sight of something heartfelt?
I saw our milk cows in their slow...

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Digital disrupture
Digital disrupture

Dieter Mersch

Digital Criticism

We really need an analysis of algorithmic conditions and their paradoxes and ambiguities that gives them an adequate framework and horizon. But instead we currently seem to be finding an algorithmic solution of the algorithmic, much as digital solutions are being offered for the problems of the digital public sphere, in the way that IT corporations, for example, use exclusively mathematical procedures to evaluate and delete “fake news,” inappropriate portrayals, or the violation of personal rights. This tends to result...
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Discourse

Ute Holl

Dream, Clouds, Off, Exile

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  • Karl Marx
  • monotheism
  • exile
  • film
  • communism
“Aboard ship! ye philosophers!”
“Aboard ship! ye philosophers!”

Wu Yi

The Sea as Mirror

A genealogy of philosophy in the form of a geology of the diluvial, so to speak. I’ve asked: how does the ocean, as a physical presence, a dynamic relationship, and an unsettling imaginary, challenge and reinvent philosophy as it understands itself to be and defines itself against? The method I’ve hitherto practiced is one simple and well-suited to the purpose: to de-sublimate and re-sublimate the variously over-sublimated layer of sense in philosophy with one’s own being, flesh and blood, and...
  • literary studies
  • the sea
  • history of philosophy
Humanities

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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