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Marialena Semitekolou, on the occasion of her novella *Sundays, in the Summer*, gave an interview to the newspaper *Ta Nea*. Read it below: The last time I was moved by a complete narrative was… the day before yesterday, in a ballet class, listening to a piece on the piano, just four minutes long, called ‘Porz Goret’, which I thought referred to some enigmatic character, but I eventually discovered it is the name of a place.If I could write to music, I would choose… a soundtrack. I love the fact that in soundtracks you can hear the most seemingly ‘incongruous’ genres of music blended into a harmonious, narrative whole.The most painful part of the writing process… is the before and the after. In the ‘before’, images, words, thoughts and faces come to you, disjointed and without substance. And you don’t know what to do with them, how to fit them together or what form to give them. In the ‘after’, when you’ve written the very last word, you realise that the text ultimately has the last word. Not you. There is no pain in the moment of writing. There is a magical concentration that extends the present into eternity.Three books I would definitely recommend for a secondary school library would be… ‘The Trial’ by Franz Kafka: a modern work, painfully topical, open to multiple interpretations and discussions. “The Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger: because it makes you believe that a book’s protagonist can, if you so wish, become a lifelong companion. ‘The Double Book’ by Dimitris Hatzis: the tenderness and respect with which the author describes the greatness of his ‘humble’ heroes constitute a valuable lesson.The criticism I accept concerns… descriptions rather than judgements, observations rather than categorisations, suggestions that have nothing to do with the words ‘good’ or ‘bad’ and that smooth out their edges to include rather than exclude.Self-criticism begins… the moment it breaks off its insidious association with self-reproach and self-pity and joins hands with personal responsibility and taking action. Otherwise, its energy is tied up in creating endless loops of self-negation.The opening of a classic book I envy is… ‘Once in the spring, at the hour of an incredibly warm twilight, in Moscow, by the Patriarch’s Ponds, two citizens appeared’ from Mikhail Bulgakov’s *The Master and Margarita*. I’m not jealous, of course. I feel awe at literature’s terrifying ability to create parallel universes into which, every time you enter, you know you’ll emerge a different person.When I hear about the ‘crisis of literature’ or the ‘literature of crisis’, I think… first of all of the word ‘crisis’ and its meaning. In development, crises, despite the turmoil and destabilisation they bring, are inevitable and necessary for a living organism to evolve and, above all, to progress. And literature is (or ought to be) a living organism, whether it is itself in crisis or describes a crisis.

On the occasion of his visit to Greece, George Saunders gave an extremely interesting interview to Giorgos Nastos for the magazine VIMAgazino, in which he spoke about the infinite versions of history and the place of humour and kindness in books and in life. You can read it below: Mr Saunders, you have obviously carried out thorough research for the writing of this book. Did you learn anything in the course of this that surprised you? ‘There is indeed something. According to contemporary accounts, Lincoln was very popular with women – although he was unattractive, he was tall and charismatic, and women were drawn to him. He wanted, however, to be a good husband, so he had found a way to keep them at a distance, because on the one hand his wife was very jealous, and on the other he respected and loved her. He exuded intense sexual energy, but he didn’t let it show. This was something I didn’t know about him and it confirmed a feeling I had that he was a distant, disciplined man. He wasn’t particularly warm, but he had a way of controlling his environment.” In your work, you cite many conflicting historical accounts. Can we trust memory and, by extension, History? ‘If in ten years’ time they ask both of us about that day, we will both describe it incorrectly; it will probably seem vivid in our memory but will have turned into something else. I have been a scientist, and part of being a good scientist is knowing the limits of one’s subject. Of course we can trust history, yet when dealing with the details, one must take into account the limitations imposed by memory. Nowadays, even experts believe that we distort our memories to confirm our worldview; so whether we are talking about history or life, it would be wise to view our certainty that we remember with a touch of humility. There is something I find very beautiful: the fact that, let’s say, a party takes place and as soon as it’s over, it’s as if there have been as many parties as there were guests – everyone remembers their own version and the truth, ultimately, is all these versions together; there is nothing more objective.You had been mulling over the idea for ‘Lethis and Lincoln’ for many years. Why did it take you so long to finally write this novel?A writer far greater than myself once said that if a writer learns the difference between ideas that will become books and those that really ought to become books, he will save himself a good fifteen years of hard work. It was a difficult challenge from a technical point of view, and I didn’t know if I could have managed it any sooner. At some point, I realised that all the reasons holding me back should, in fact, have convinced me. It’s an interesting fact that if an idea is difficult, then it’s likely to be a very good one. Because it has something to teach you. Some books broaden our horizons; this was one such book. As we grow older, we settle into our comfort zones. Of course, there’s always the risk that when you take a chance, you’ll make a complete mess of things. But you’re as good as dead if you don’t try.’ You drew inspiration from an unjust, tragic death. What do such events teach us? “Many years ago, a friend of ours died young and I was thinking of writing something to his wife. It was a tragedy; they had a small child; there was nothing comforting about the whole story. The people we love, however, continue to exist within us and interact with us; they change something about our presence in the world. There are many ways to change a person’s life; if a man comes in here and starts shooting and you save me, that will be significant and I thank you, but if we have a nice chat and something starts to click inside me, then you’ve influenced me for the rest of my life, and perhaps I’ll influence others too. It sounds a bit New Age, but there’s a grain of truth in it. I believe that our positive and negative actions have a corresponding impact on the world. Most of the book’s heroes find themselves in a strange state between death and definitive non-existence. Personally, what do you believe happens after we leave this world? “I think there is something, and I believe there is plenty of evidence – with accounts of near-death experiences, for instance. I don’t believe, in other words, that a switch is simply flipped and that’s it. Patricia Pearson has written a book on communicating with spirits; she almost convinces you with the examples she gives.” Reading your interviews, I was struck by how much importance you attach to humility… “The times I’ve felt truly wise in my life were when I was really down; I didn’t pretend when I felt I knew nothing. I’m very suspicious of self-confidence, especially when I see it in myself. My book did well in America and I toured the whole country hearing praise, so I had to tell myself that it was ‘full of shit’. I have to keep checking myself, because certainty is a bad advisor.You’ve embraced Buddhism. Has it helped you in your relationship with mortality? “I’m still at the beginning. You know, I sometimes think I’m a balanced sort of bloke. Until they lose my luggage at the airport – then I realise I’m not ready for death at all. From the little meditation I’ve done, I understand that there’s a way to change this machine called the brain and react better to adversity. I know the small steps I can take and I try to do them. I find it very interesting that human experience is based on small assessments. If I ask myself how I am, if I think that I have become a writer and that I am doing well, I immediately calm down. No one, however, is keeping score. There is only you and the moment. And then the next moment. There is nothing else.’ ‘Your offbeat humour is present in all your writing. Is it a strategic choice as a writer or a fundamental aspect of your character?’ ‘Obviously both. The writing process is a validation and an expression of one’s personality. How you process the world will be reflected in how you process a book. I find that I have a mind that operates both emotionally and sarcastically at the same time. I can be at a funeral, genuinely sad, and notice that the deceased’s trousers are slightly dirty, and find that tragicomic. Over time, you learn to understand which side prevails in each situation. When I’m nervous, when I feel inadequate, I become sarcastic, but I know that’s not all I am. None of these things are you; they are aspects of yourself that you have access to. An initial draft of the book had turned out far too serious and needed a bit of humour. It was a strategic choice, but it was also closer to who I am. What I’m trying to do as I get older is to be open to whatever happens to me. When I was younger, it was very easy for me to joke constantly and, in essence, to trivialise every situation. I thought I was on top of everything and being honest, but I was simply honouring just one aspect of my character.” I see you say you have an emotional brain rather than that you are emotional. Is it all down to the chemistry of the organ in our heads? “I believe in neurological processes. There is a system of chemical reactions within us that, when you are young, you think is identical to yourself; then you come to see it as the world; and at some point you realise why your reactions are predictable—you have decoded them. I have come to a very liberating conclusion: We are not merely our thoughts. We are so much more.’ Your speech at the Syracuse University graduation ceremony, where you teach creative writing, which has been published under the title ‘Congratulations – Thoughts on Kindness’, speaks of kindness towards others. Is kindness towards ourselves a first step? ‘I wrote that speech in a hurry, in three days, so it remains a bit superficial. In America, kindness is equated with being good, and I don’t agree with that interpretation. The definition I now give is the state of mind that allows you to have the fewest illusions. Why do we become selfish? Because we think we’re amazing, that we’re the centre of the world. If we let go of that notion a little, we’ll become better people. If we recognise our transience, we’ll naturally become kinder, more compassionate. By being humble—not by beating yourself up, because that too allows your ‘ego’ to take the lead—you correctly define your place in the world and ultimately treat yourself well.”Some define inspiration as the ultimate connection with the world. What do you say? “I experience it as happiness. How is it that sometimes you wake up in the morning and are in a good mood for no reason? It happens to me when I’m writing – even if I’m working on a sad scene, if I feel somewhat happy, I know I’m doing a better job. In any case, there’s no point in constantly chasing the muse; if I don’t feel it, I do the most mundane things – I go shopping, I go for walks, I see friends – and when I feel better, I get down to work. Of course, you don’t wait for it completely idly; literature, in particular, requires a lot of practice.” “What are your most significant literary influences?” “One writer I keep coming back to is Nikolai Gogol. Although I’m not sure I can describe what I like about him, I always try to write like an American Gogol. Chekhov is an influence, as are the Monty Pythons. Lately I’ve been wondering if there’s anything I’ve learnt about the world that hasn’t been properly expressed – I feel I don’t have much time left, perhaps the time has come to write my own truth. On the other hand, I feel ‘poorly educated’ when it comes to literature. I wish I could stop time and just read for twenty years, but unfortunately that’s not possible, and the limitations in my work stem from that. It’s never too late. Perhaps robotics will develop rapidly and we’ll start living to 180.” I imagine you’re probably tired of answering this question, but how do you view the situation with Donald Trump as US president? “Sickening. Shocking. There’s nothing good about it. And seeing this great American edifice crumble because of this bloke is tragic. As a writer, I’m trying to understand why I didn’t see it coming. I have quite a few friends and relatives who voted for him and I’m trying to listen to them, to understand. Trump is the result of a long period of decline, consumerism and poor education. And perhaps the choice of a spoiled generation. A generation that has never faced real hardship, which is why it sets fire to the house as soon as it feels even the slightest pressure. Because it has never found itself inside a burning house.”

Read below the interview given by Eftychia Giannaki to the newspaper Ta Nea and its new column ‘Recommendations’, on the occasion of the publication of *The City in the Light*, the third part of the Athens Trilogy featuring Inspector Haris Kokkinos.  The last time I was moved by a complete narrative was… a few days ago when I met Maria, who was feeding the stray cats outside the Archaeological Museum, even though she has lost her job and everything she owned and is trying to sell her helmet for ten euros, because she no longer has a motorbike, so what use is the helmet to her, but she doesn’t have a mobile either because it was stolen, and often she doesn’t even have enough to eat, though there is a cheese pie seller who helps her out at the end of the day. Though the narrative was incomplete, it was made whole by the silences, the glances and the complicit coexistence in this city that has been grinding everything down and digesting it all for centuries, inside and outside the Archaeological Museum, in such a way that even for the stories it makes no difference whether they are true or not. It is simply the navel of my own, or rather our own, world. If I could write to music, I would choose… to listen to classical music. At this time of year, I could listen for hours to Debussy’s ‘Afternoon of a Faun’ or Stravinsky’s ‘The Rite of Spring’ or Chopin’s ‘Nocturnes’, which I used to play. Not as I used to play them, but as Brigitte Engerer performs them, preferably.The most painful thing about the writing process… is that at some point you emerge from the imaginary world you’ve created—that is, from your own Garden of Eden—and find yourself back in the real world, which you realise you should never have left. The next day you repeat the same thing, not out of stupidity, but out of necessity. You are addicted to the falsehood of words. You are addicted to yourself. No higher power cares to save you from your writing, and this realisation is painful and, in a way, inevitable.Three books I would definitely recommend for a sixth-form library would be… Camus’s *The Stranger*, Kafka’s *The Trial* and Orwell’s *1984*. I read them for the first time as a teenager, and that was enough for me to realise that literature would never be a simple matter in my life. The criticism I accept concerns… every kind of opinion and perspective. When it is substantiated, it can open up a fruitful dialogue; when it is not substantiated, it may end in an interesting monologue. In any case, I seek it out. Self-criticism begins with… the word, moves on to the sentence, the paragraph, the chapter, the book, the books. I always look at the part, but also at the whole, to ensure it has some meaning so that it can exist and be read over time.The opening of a classic book that I envy is… the opening sentence of Virginia Woolf’s *Mrs Dalloway*. I won’t write it down, though, so you can’t look it up.When I hear about the ‘crisis in literature’ or ‘literature of the crisis’, I think of… those who judge without reading and those who read without judging. Find out more about Eftychia Giannaki here: www.giannaki.com

Read below the interview given by Yannis Efthymiadis to Poli Kremnioti for the newspaper *Avgi*, on the occasion of his new poetry collection *Patreida*. “‘The revolution will come from deep darkness,’ declares Yannis Efthymiadis in his latest poetry collection, ‘Patreida’. Introspective yet thoroughly political, this poetry redefines the poet’s relationship with the concept of homeland, which is now approached on the basis of a re-engagement with humanity as both the individual self and a collective entity. ‘I shall say that for me, homeland is all that I love and all that I have seen,’ writes the poet in the first of the four sections into which the poetic composition is structured."In this work, I attempt to capture the image of a homeland as we have all experienced it over the last few decades, through our collective memory and through the loving relationships between people.Through this endeavour, I consciously began to redefine its meaning, to disconnect it from the narrow concept of place and to link it to people, to the lived experience of both those born here and those who found themselves in this place, and made it their homeland. Thus, the concept of homeland transcends its narrow geographical boundaries and is redefined within a much broader context, now as an image of ourselves through the other,” notes Yannis Efthymiadis.In the first section of the same name, the poet’s gaze turns to the people and things that make up the homeland; in the second – ‘The Week of the Depths”—highlights the grim reality of our world as reflected in the years of deep crisis in our country and globally.The third section is an elegy, “not, however, in the sense of a lament of resignation, but of realisation—that pivotal moment, in other words, that makes you realise you must react,” says Yannis Efthymiadis. In the final section – ‘the revolution will come from deep darkness’ – the poet urges action not out of over-optimism, but out of awareness. As he puts it, ‘poetry owes nothing, but poets owe a great deal’. In a time of transition, within a fluid international environment and a globalised context where boundaries are blurring and identities are shifting, Yannis Efthymiadis draws on the poetic tradition of his homeland, playing with rhyme and metre to highlight the internal structure and rhythm that run through the composition. ‘Rhythm is an element closely interwoven with our contemporary poetic tradition. I returned to the source because the deeper one digs, the more universally one speaks. Our times frighten me, because personal and collective identity has been lost; whether as an act, an expectation or a vision, fundamental codes of values have been distorted and counterfeited, which disorients us and leads us to chase illusory dreams. The omnipotence of money has marginalised our humanity, our aesthetics, our ethics; it has disrupted the hierarchy of values in our lives.”“Is this an issue that concerns poetry internationally?” we ask him. “The issues highlighted by our times concern poets, creators and artists all over the world. I think we are all in a period of searching and redefining; we are trying to pick up the thread where we left off when the post-war social vision collapsed. The reconnection with form and a more structured mode is a phenomenon that poets across the world are seeking today, so that they may build a new poetic reality on a firmer foundation. It is also a healthy reaction to the chaotic freedom to which the over-interpretation of postmodernism has led.” In this sense, the political dimension of poetry comes to the fore. "Poetry, from its very inception, is a deeply political phenomenon; it contains within it conflict and revolution, first and foremost against ourselves, against any certainty, whether we have defined it ourselves or it occurs without our knowledge.We always speak politically in poetry, even in its most lyrical outbursts, if one considers that poetic discourse comes to challenge the narrow economic and technical framework of the era. Perhaps, and indeed most likely, poetry cannot provide the solutions, but it can give us the strength to find them."Perhaps this is why Yannis Efthymiadis concludes his elegy with the firm assertion: ‘in arid times, the root grows deeper...’.