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Leading Greek poet and academic Kiki Dimoula, shortly before the release of her new collection of poetry entitled *Anotelia*, spoke with journalist Manolis Pimblis.  Read below the very interesting interview published on Saturday 22 October in the newspaper Ta Nea, in the ‘Vibliodromio’ supplement: Let’s start with the title: ‘Ano Telia’. Why did you choose it? I didn’t choose it; it was imposed on me. Perhaps he was encouraged by the fact that in the poem entitled ‘The Polytonic’ I praise the importance of accents and punctuation. If you now ask me why a semicolon and not a full stop, I would say that I avoided it because it would have been like filing a registry document. Melodrama, in other words. Most likely, however, I was drawn to the word: Up. It drew me upwards, as if to pull me away from the predator: ‘Down’. In the poem ‘On the Train’, you speak tenderly of disused stations and of the ‘irreverent speed’ with which the countryside is traversed. At the same time, you state that you are returning, without saying clearly where. Does the modern person even have the choice not to board the high-speed train? And where, after all, is this train going? It matters where this train comes from and where it is going. My intention, however, was to emphasise that the past is constantly on the move, through its own abolition, with the present and the future as its only daring passengers. I single out your phrases and words: ‘the sickness of sorrow’, ‘melancholy’, ‘times of weeping’. At the same time, you say that we cling to life out of fear. Is the fear of death stronger than any sorrow? And yet, is it not stronger than any joy? So is this the explanation for sacrifice? In my opinion, or rather according to my own fearful psychology, the main cause of all sorrow and of the – most often – unwarranted melancholy is the innate fear of death. It is so pervasive that I suspect creation and creativity are motivated by the avoidance or postponement of death. I would add that, at least for me, I have never known any great joy that did not tremble at the very thought of its own death from the very outset. Indeed, I suspect that these very beautiful and enthusiastic feelings are aware of the limits of their own existence; perhaps that is why they are so spasmodic and unstable. And if that is true, then it is a great act of bravery on their part that they agree to be born and willingly sacrifice themselves in order to toughen up our pampered psyche. You say somewhere: ‘Memory again, oblivion again. I use the same words over and over’. And in your very fine poem ‘The Genuine’, about unhealed wounds, you say ‘superficially you forget’. Is there a way to overcome traumatic memory? I think there is only one way, and it is utterly humiliating. Dementia. But then again, how do I know if dementia isn’t simply a secretive memory, and that the only thing it trusts to safeguard its experiences is oblivion? In the field of history, there has been much talk of memory in recent years. In other words, we are often more interested in what we remember happened than in what actually happened. Do we construct our own traumas? To remember mostly means forcing something that no longer happens to pretend it is happening, with the aid, of course, of nostalgia, which is the most painful of pleasures. But we want it. It is the raw material with which we unwittingly create new wounds, as if our torment were drawing from them antibodies to protect its endurance.You speak subversively of experience, declaring that one must not trust it, but also of omniscience, which will always be humiliated by the Unknown and must ‘tear its reputation to shreds’. What place do knowledge and youthful vigour hold for you in life?I try to be the peacemaker in the unceasing war between knowledge and youthful vigour. But I don’t succeed. And I always find myself in the camp of youthful vigour, as a volunteer to soothe its wounds.You describe the beautiful side of life in two words: dreams and love (in that order). Do you perhaps mean that love is a subcategory of dreams? And that the only reality, therefore, is the one we do not live? Not exactly. Rather, dreams are a subcategory of love. And yes, the only enchanting, generous, desirable reality is the one we do not live. And from the way you put it, I gather that you are, among other things, a poet.Greece, a crossroads, as they say, between East and West, chose politically, with strong logical arguments, the famous ‘we belong to the West’. Do you believe its soul is there too? I simply suspect it comes and goes.What feelings does today’s Europe evoke in you? A sense of security, trust, or, conversely, anxiety and fear? A threat and, at the same time, a reassuring dream. One of the issues causing its foundations to creak is the refugee crisis. How do you process within yourself this reality of the Aegean, filled with refugees, which Greece has recently experienced and is still experiencing? The issue is so tragic that, alas, if grand words and feelings of compassion were to be uttered, it would be a disaster. I am unable to justify such persecution that transcends the human, however much Greece has found itself in a similarly painful situation in the past. In other centuries, poetry held the primacy of expression – and theatre, of course. Today, it seems to be prose. How do you interpret this, and how do you feel about your place in the world of literature?Perhaps prose gives language more scope to expand than poetry, where writing is confined to certain rules, however much they have become more flexible for the sake of modern times, facilitating or misleading the result. As for me ― I answer honestly ― I am so insecure that I do not envisage any ‘position’ in the literary world, however much I might desire it as the mortal being that I am.The generation of the 1930s, which produced two Nobel laureates, has taken on mythical proportions in the collective subconscious; do you think its mythology will stand the test of time?I do not know if time will have the superiority to preserve the Nobel’s rightful prestige, which time itself should have been the first to receive for its unceasing creativity in working miracles.And while we’re on the subject of the Nobel Prizes: what did you make of this year’s award to Bob Dylan? It took me by surprise. But I don’t wish to comment on it further. Do you feel you have drawn on certain poetic sources more than others? Is there a line of poetic excellence and substance from the past that you believe can be traced in your poetry? Which older poets do you feel a kinship with? To have the audacity to feel a kinship with certain poets, I would need to know whether they, too, recognise me as their sister. But are values really so closely related? Do similarities benefit art? As for influences, yes, they inevitably exist, but they act and exert their influence when individual temperaments grow dark and feel alone and helpless.

Theodoros Papaioannou, author of the fairy tales Anapoda and Apenanti, spoke in the first person to diastixo.gr about his first steps in writing.His text is republished here: For as long as I can remember, I have been in a school. A pupil, a student, a teacher. Surrounded by pencils, erasers, pens, exercise books, books and notebooks. Well, you don’t need much else to start writing. I’ve been writing since I was a child. From little notes to stories, short stories, plays and poems. I started writing fairy tales when I was older. When I was little, they used to read them to me or tell them to me. Later, I read them on my own. I never wanted school to end. I don’t know why. I liked it when it stopped for the holidays, but I always wanted it to start again. So the only way for school to continue was to cross over to the ‘other side’, and go from being a pupil to becoming a teacher. ‘Upside-down’ things, in other words. I think that in the end things didn’t turn out quite like that, because most of the time when I go into the classroom I sit at a desk. I feel better at a desk with the children around me. Ah, the children. Without them, I probably wouldn’t write. I collect their sentences and words on scraps of paper, in diaries, in the palm of my hand... Their conversations are usually the starting point for a story or a fairy tale. Is that too much to ask? When I finally believed that my stories could be read by more children, I started knocking on the doors of publishing houses. I knocked with large mustard-coloured envelopes, but they wouldn’t open them. That’s when I remembered I had to be patient. (I’d been through the same thing with music, when I was learning the guitar.) Because I wasn’t patient; I wanted everything to happen straight away. In a flash, as they say. At some point, a man turned up – what we call a ‘sponsor’ – and so my first book, containing two plays for children, was published in a limited edition. It was black and white, but I didn’t care at all. I kept sending out those mustard-coloured envelopes in the hope that a door might open. The exercise in patience continued. ‘A good lesson, I won’t deny it, but how long will it last?’, I wondered. Eventually, I decided to put together a portfolio of my own, containing all the replies from the closed doors. They all said more or less the same thing. ‘Thank you, very nice, but we won’t be taking it because...’. The folder just kept getting thicker and thicker. After a few years, one folder made it through, the door opened, and it became a book! With its colours, its songs, everything about it. Such joy! That wait, with all its setbacks, gave birth to *Anapoda*, which is also my first book to be awarded by the Children’s Book Circle in 2015.With the colours of the rainbow adorning nature and Melios the beetle, it was now clear that, after patience and perseverance, the journey was changing course. The following year, *Apenanti* came along with its songs, won the booksellers’ award from Public, and it too boarded the ship. Well, then came more fairy tales, a teenage novel; some are on their way, some are on paper and others in my mind. I feel lucky because I have precious travelling companions: Viktoras, Sofia, Kostas, Leda, Irida, Marilena, Roula, Vicky, Christina, Myrto and, of course, my son Orestis, who writes the music for the songs in the fairy tales.When I perform or narrate a fairy tale and I’m surrounded by children, I feel that this is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. To be among children. I love that they speak the truth without a second thought, that they are spontaneous. That they laugh with all their hearts when something strikes them as truly funny. For children to let you share a story of yours with them is truly a great honour. When they actually enjoy it and have a good time, it’s magic. When I first started writing, I used to say that if even one child fell asleep reading one of my stories, I’d feel happy. Now that I’m sure that’s happened, I can say that I am. When friends ask me, ‘But how do you come up with them? Where do you find them?’ and things like that, I reply: Everywhere. In the trees, in the plants, on a walk in the mountains, in children’s laughter, in a photograph, on a journey... I try to look at the world around me as if I were seeing it for the first time every time.

Eftychia Giannaki answers questions from Georgina Doutsi of in.gr, to mark the release of her crime novel *In the Back Seat*. The interview concludes with the author’s ten commandments for a good crime novel. The interview is republished here:In the Back Seat is the title of your new book and forms the first part of the Athens Trilogy, starring Inspector Haris Kokkinos. What plot unfolds in your new book and what themes are you exploring in it?A film director is found brutally murdered in the basement of the Plakas Theatre, and Inspector Haris Kokkinos and his team are introduced to readers through a case in which they will need to unravel a web of shared secrets, cover-ups and violence in the heart of modern-day Athens. At the same time, the son of the forty-five-year-old Inspector is arrested on charges that force him to delve into his own family history. The pressure of time and the silence of the silent will prove that things are never simple for those who found themselves in the back seat. In a society where everyone is guilty, some will be called upon to pay the price, including Haris Kokkinos, whilst the interrogations paint a portrait of the people of Athens who feature in the story.The themes that concern me most are the veiled violence that goes round in circles, collective guilt, the past and what we think we have left behind, shared secrets, superficiality, the simplicity of everyday things, humour in the face of the abhorrent, and our fears as they unfold within the familiar setting of a city that is not merely the backdrop to the crime story, but its very essence. How did the book’s title come about, and what does writing or reading a crime novel offer you? The book’s title is inextricably linked to the essence of the plot. We have all sat in the back seat as children, and some will find themselves there as suspects. The connection between a criminal act and the past, and the search for its causes, forms the core of this particular story.When writing crime novels, I like to create situations of fear in order to bring the fears of everyday life under my control and, ideally, to confront them. I believe this is the pleasure of the crime novel. And it is the same whether you are writing crime novels or reading them. The plot unfolds against the backdrop of modern-day Athens, in a familiar society full of stereotypes and taboos. What image does Eftychia Giannaki have of the Athens where she lives and works? Athens is my city, and particularly the city centre where I live and work, and I would say that it is not merely the backdrop to the story. Anyone who reads the book will see it come to the fore on many occasions.My interest in the city and its inhabitants, as well as its evolution over time, reveals nothing other than my determination to understand the changes undergone by a structure that in recent years seems to be shaking to its foundations. It is a time when the certainties of the past are being shaken, lawlessness and chaos are ever-present, and the prevailing rule seems to be that no rule is observed. In this sense, I believe it provides an ideal setting for the development of a crime story. Crime fiction is a popular and much-loved genre among readers worldwide. Why do you think readers are so keen on devouring this kind of novel? Don’t we read about plenty of murders and acts of violence in the daily news? I believe that crime fiction is the narrative that sheds light on the things we avoid looking at in depth in our daily lives. News coverage of these issues and the speed with which they change often leave us bewildered and full of questions, and it is these questions that usually seek answers in a crime novel.The seriousness of a crime narrative is often questioned, and for many years it was regarded as light reading. I am among those who believe that the development of this genre in recent years manages to reflect the social, psychological or even philosophical dimensions of a story in a direct way, a fact which, in my view, makes it popular with readers worldwide. ‘How likely is it that you would murder someone, rather than kiss them? wondered Inspector Haris Kokkinos”, allow me, in turn, to pose the question contained within the book... If I did not believe it to be highly likely, I would not be writing crime fiction. I believe that, potentially, we are all perpetrators and victims under certain circumstances. And it is precisely this possibility—of finding ourselves in one position or the other—that is tested when reading or writing a crime novel.What is the ‘formula’ you follow when writing a crime novel? My formula, if I may call it that, is that I try to create something I would find interesting to read. Because I don’t have the full plot development in mind from the start, it’s like playing a game of chess against myself, page by page, chapter by chapter.Do you read Greek crime fiction? I read both Greek and foreign crime fiction, and I feel that in the future Greek crime fiction may produce significant works, given that the conditions in which we have been living as a country in recent years, conditions of instability, insecurity and lawlessness may well provide fertile ground for reflection and the development of crime stories. So what else will The Athens Trilogy include, and when can we expect the next two books?That is a closely guarded secret, a puzzle I am currently trying to solve whilst preparing the second story featuring Inspector Haris Kokkinos.As for the timing, I believe that Ikaros Publications’ response will not disappoint even the most impatient readers.”&The ten commandments of a good crime novel, by author Eftychia Giannaki: It is important to have a clear central idea that captures the essence of the plot and the reason why the story is worth telling or reading. The characters, both main and secondary, must be well-rounded, so that the reader feels they are people one might encounter in real life, rather than fabrications or caricatures.&The plot must be interesting and convincing in its development. Ideally, it should be so compelling that the reader cannot put the book down. The atmosphere, the setting and the backdrop must be presented in a way that makes the circumstances surrounding the crime and the resolution of the case understandable, thereby enhancing the development of the story. The methods used to solve the case must be convincing and stand up to the scrutiny of an intelligent reader familiar with police mysteries. The social, psychological and philosophical implications of the story must be presented in an accessible manner, without the reader feeling that the action is being slowed down. The balance between lightness and gravity in the narrative, and even humour in the face of the abhorrent, can illuminate a crime story in a unique way and, in my view, should be sought. The solution should not come about by coincidence or through a deus ex machina, whilst the motives must be thoroughly justified The reader’s way of thinking and moral compass must be put to the test, as they are called upon to provide answers to complex issues or dilemmas. Upon closing the book, the reader should feel that they would like to read another book by the same author.

To mark the publication of Alejandro Sabra’s book *Ways of Returning Home*, Marialena Spyropoulou spoke with the Chilean author in a very interesting interview for the newspaper Kathimerini, which was published on 18 June in the Arts and Letters supplement. “I got lost once, I must have been five or six years old,” writes the Chilean writer, poet and literary theorist Alejandro Zambra in his autobiographical novel Ways of Returning Home, published in Greek by Ikaros Publications, translated by Achilleas Kyriakidis. Zambra, who is known in Greek literary circles from his first book, *Bonsai*, manages with this moving, direct, first-person novel to draw the reader into two narrative levels: the first describes the protagonist’s struggle to take centre stage in his own life; the second subtly underscores the sorrow a person feels when they realise they cannot return to what has ultimately been lost forever. – In your latest book, an earthquake – both real and symbolic – shakes the protagonist’s memory. What are the internal and emotional ‘earthquakes’ an adult needs in order to ‘return home’?– We grew up with the idea of an earthquake. My grandmother used to tell us bedtime stories about the people who died in the great earthquake of 1939. When it happened again in 1985, I thought, ‘So this is what an earthquake is like’. I feel that earthquakes shape your sensibility in many ways. You come face to face with the feeling that everything can be destroyed in an instant; that changes your life. And it gives you a sense of fragility. Since then, I can’t imagine the world as indestructible. – What was your childhood like? Is the book autobiographical? – I think all books are autobiographical, in one way or another. But it doesn’t really matter whether these things happened to me, after all. Ways of Returning Home is the first novel I wrote in the first person. I felt the need to discover exactly what this ‘I’ is, what it’s all about, but ultimately it’s more of a ‘we’ than an ‘I’. I belong to a generation that grew up trying to understand the difference between living in silence and having silence imposed upon them. I’m not claiming that this novel represents the entire generation—I would never say that—yet one of the most important issues the book grapples with is the legitimacy of memory. Whom do you represent when you try to create your own version of the past? In whose name do you speak, even when you speak only for yourself? I’m not sure if I had a happy childhood, but I certainly wasn’t unhappy. And I was growing up during the most dreadful years of our national history. Whilst I was more or less free, hundreds of my compatriots were being murdered and tortured, and Chile was surrendered to the most savage form of capitalism. This realisation, which came during my adolescence, reshaped my memories. In other words, suddenly all my memories turned bitter. And the very act of remembering became bitter. The intensity of poetry – You are also a poet and a professor. Your grandmother used to ‘whittle out’ little verses. Yet you have written that you feel uncomfortable with your poetic nature.– I have loved words since I was a small child. I loved storytelling too, but I think I gradually discovered stories I wanted to tell. I’m not the ‘let me tell you a story’ type. Besides, I don’t believe in themes. In that sense, I proceeded as a poet. On the other hand, I’m not sure whether there are boundaries between prose and poetry, or what they might be. – Why do you consider poetry more important than fiction?– That’s purely a matter of intensity. Poetry appealed to me more as a reader, of course. And when I was twenty, writing novels seemed boring... spending hours in front of the computer...– You once said that you’re always looking for that moment when you’re not sure about what you’re doing... – I firmly believe in that. I don’t treat writing as a matter of me saying something the other person already knows. When you write, you might have a few ideas, but as the writing progresses, you lose control. I like the moment when I catch myself not knowing what I’m doing, but on the other hand I know that I’m doing something. I start with an image and try to develop it like a small sculpture. There’s already something there, and you work on it until you discover it. – Do you find it difficult to write or finish a book? You’ve said that books are born as soon as they’ve moved beyond you. – I wouldn’t call it just difficulty. There are, of course, many pleasant, good moments as well. Even when you’re writing about painful things, you experience a sense of fulfilment, or the illusion of it. It isn’t always consciously pleasant. It’s hard for me to accept that a book is finished. My Spanish publisher, Jorge Herralde, teases me because I’m very good at making last-minute changes. But as soon as the book is published, I forget about it and move on. Pinochet’s Chile – You grew up during the Chilean dictatorship. You describe the feeling of playing a secondary role on the stage of your own life. What is your life like today? – It took us a long time to feel like protagonists in our own lives. We grew up with parents who claimed the experience and legitimacy of History entirely for themselves. That is difficult to deal with. But now we are the parents. And I’m interested in the transition. That is precisely what the novel *The Private Lives of Trees* and the poetry collection *Facsimile/Multiple Choice* deal with. I insist on the shift, on the transition from the singular to the plural. Everything there is caught up in this oscillation. – You write about memory. The memory of your generation. What is the specific psychological and political context of this generation? – These are the questions I ask myself, and I can only answer them by writing a novel! I consider Ways of Returning Home to be a novel about dealing with the past, in various ways. It is not just a matter of ‘killing the father’. It’s mainly about the fact that you’re no longer 20 years old and you ‘killed’ your father many years ago, and you discover that you want to bring him back to life, and that’s not possible. You want to go home and you don’t know where home is.– Every novel is a letter to the world. What sort of letter did you send? – I have no idea... The idea of being translated is something that fascinates me. I do feel, however, that I sent a letter. Writing is the ability to share and to lose. I love Emily Dickinson’s poem: ‘This is my letter to the world, which never wrote to me...’ but ultimately I can’t help but see how lucky I am. I’m in touch with so many people, and I read everything my readers write to me and feel devoted to them all. A lover of the work of Greek poets – we Greeks share a past with Chile when it comes to poetry. We too had a dictatorship, albeit on a different scale, but we have faced and continue to face problems with transitions. As I was reading your novel, I had a subtle sense of a shared psychological atmosphere that pervades the families, as well as the issue of the earthquake. Is this something you have considered? – I am a devotee of ancient Greek prose and I am very fond of modern Greek poetry, with which I am well acquainted. I studied under Miguel Castillo Didier, a great teacher, who is arguably the greatest translator of Cavafy. He has also translated Seferis, Ritsos, Elytis and Kazantzakis. I know these works in Spanish translation inside out and I adore them. Cavafy’s ‘God Has Forsaken Antony’ is one of my favourite poems. When I was 21, I wrote my own version of this poem for a tribute to Cavafy. Castillo Didier asked young poets to contribute, so I wrote something for him and he translated it himself. I don’t know what became of that poem, but now that I think about it, the first language into which any of my work was ever translated is Greek. I’m not comparing the two national histories, although I do believe, unfortunately, that we have things in common because of the political violence we have experienced.