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

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We like !
DIAPHANES MAGAZINE No. 4

 

I remember

Urs Engeler, 03.07.2017

Ich erinnere mich an mein Exemplar von Alles kurz und klein, das weg ist, verschwunden! – wer erinnert sich, es...

I remember

Jerome Charyn, 03.07.2017

A Little Paris Nightmare

I loved Paris, even as a little boy, long before I lived there. I was like Pinocchio wandering about in some strange Land of Toys. I...

I remember

Marie Brassard, 03.07.2017

La soif

Quand j’étais enfant, près de la maison ou j’habitais, il y avait une voie ferrée. Avant de m'endormir, j’entendais...

Other columns
  • FICTIONARY

    FICTIONARY

    Not on any Knowlede’s service this register in progress seeks accumulating entries of imagenables: names, objects, imaginations… singularities, that neither have to be thought nor upon which must be speculated.

  • L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée

    L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée

    L’œuvre d'art n’a pas d’idée, elle est idée

  • LISTMANIA

    LISTMANIA

    Vonceptually sensory bills of fare, enumerations and selections…

  • Questionnaire

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

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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