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Kevin Brazil
Kevin Brazil is a writer and critic who lives in London. His writing has appeared in Granta, The White Review, the London Review of Books, the Times Literary Supplement, Art Review, art-agenda, Studio International, and elsewhere. He is writing a book about queer happiness.

Articles Available Online


Interview with Sianne Ngai

Interview

October 2020

Kevin Brazil

Interview

October 2020

Over the past fifteen years, Sianne Ngai has created a taxonomy of the aesthetic features of contemporary capitalism: the emotions it provokes, the judgements...

Essay

Issue No. 28

Fear of a Gay Planet

Kevin Brazil

Essay

Issue No. 28

In Robert Ferro’s 1988 novel Second Son, Mark Valerian suffers from an unnamed illness afflicting gay men, spread by...

Если у вас в мегаполисе ещё помнят обо мне, ссыльном, Знай, кто спросит: я умер, едва приговор огласили Мёртвый живу, хожу, тело донашиваю, Оно послушное – ссыхается на костях Я здесь чужак, варвар, языка не носитель, Неба коптитель, волосы стали белые, Мёртвыми губами учу гетскую грамоту, Мёртвыми ногами топчу твёрдую воду Что тебе рассказать, чтоб не скучала? Скачут Кони по гладкой реке, и стрелы летают, Рыбы торчат изо льда с открытыми ртами, Некому их вынимать Некому меня понимать Вино замёрзло, стоит само без кувшина, Кусок вина отломлю и сосу, как сиську Яблок не достать Ты бы меня не узнала Местные замотаны в шкуры, на тогу косятся, Только лица и видно, да и те в бороде Даже звёзды здесь не как у людей   If anyone in your global city still holds me, exile, in memory, Know that I died as soon as they read out the sentence I live dead, walk around dead, wear out the remains of my body, My agreeable body, flesh cracking on dry bones Here I am an alien, barbarian, non-native speaker, Idler with time on his hands but white in his hair, I don’t get their speech, I forget the words that I study, Just consonant clusters, no vowels for poetry What can I talk about so as not to bore you? Horses Slip on hard rivers, arrows hit targets, philosophy is stupid Fish stick out of the ice with mouths agape, Too much air for them, too little ear for me Wine frozen overnight, it stands by itself, the vessel in shards, I chop a piece off and suck on it like an infant The apples at the market are tawny and wrinkly like shrunken heads The locals, fir-tall, fur-clad, point at my toga, make shivering Gestures No human faces – just beards and hair over fur Even the stars look down on me     AFTERWORD   In 8 CE, the Roman poet Publius Ovidius Naso was exiled on the direct orders of Augustus to Tomis, a distant imperial outpost on the Black Sea in what is now Romania He died there a decade later, never receiving permission to come home despite his constant entreaties The exact cause of Ovid’s punishment is unknown; the poems he composed in Tomis appeared in two collections under the titles of Tristia, or ‘Laments’, and Epistulae ex

Contributor

March 2018

Kevin Brazil

Contributor

March 2018

Kevin Brazil is a writer and critic who lives in London. His writing has appeared in Granta, The White Review, the London...

Interview with Terre Thaemlitz

Interview

March 2018

Kevin Brazil

Interview

March 2018

In the first room of Terre Thaemlitz’s 2017 exhibition ‘INTERSTICES’, at Auto Italia in London, columns of white text ran across one wall. Thaemlitz...

READ NEXT

feature

April 2017

The White Review Short Story Prize 2017 Shortlist (US & Canada)

feature

April 2017

click on the title to read the story   1,040 MPH by Alexander Slotnick   Abu One-Eye by Rav...

feature

Issue No. 15

Translation in the First Person

Kate Briggs

feature

Issue No. 15

IT IS 1 JUNE 2015 and I am standing outside no. 11 rue Servandoni in Paris’s sixth arrondissement. I...

Interview

September 2012

Interview with Michael Hansmeyer

Lawrence Lek

Interview

September 2012

Every project made with a computer expresses a relationship between aesthetics and technology. The historical progress of technology works...

 

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