Summer 1981 • Vol. III No. 3 FictionJuly 1, 1981 |

Homo Obliteratus

My aversion to cameras might have been the start of it. That's something I can trace back to the bare beginnings of my life. Pictures taken of me before I'd learned to talk show me turning away, holding a hand up, closing my eyes—or sticking out my tongue. In a film that my father shot when I was about six or seven, you see me circling my mother's legs to avoid being caught by the lens. Mother stands in one of those lambskin-collar coats that were so popular after the war, her hair done up à la Grable, her feet placed primly together in open-toed shoes, while I in a baseball jacket and a peaked cap move behind her, fleeing the lens as my father circles round trying to get a shot of me. I see him rounding the bend; I move further. By the end of this masterpiece of child sadism my father has moved one hundred and eighty degrees from where he had started, shooting my mother's back and shapely backside while she looks demurely over her shoulder, still wearing a Screen Star smile. Of

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Circus

By Craig Raine

My aversion to cameras might have been the start of it. That's something I can trace back to the bare beginnings of my life. Pictures taken of me before I'd […]

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