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Monografie
Around a sculpture by Alberto Giacometti
Georges Didi-Huberman, Mira Fliescher (Hg.), Elena Vogman (Hg.)
The Cube and the Face
Sammelband
Zur Kritik der Wirksamkeit in den Künsten
Kathrin Busch (Hg.), Burkhard Meltzer (Hg.), Tido von Oppeln (Hg.)
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Halluzinatorische Chroniken New Yorks
Reportagen, Fiktionen, Wirklichkeiten der Hauptstadt des 20. Jahrhunderts
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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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