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Tobias Wolff, a master of the short story form, gave a very interesting interview to the newspaper *To Vima* and to Grigoris Bekos to mark the publication of the book *The Warrior’s Joy and Other Stories* (translated by Tassos Anastasiou & Yannis Palavos). The American author talks about the art of short story writing, explains why literature is intertwined with problematic situations, refers to the Homeric epics and expresses shame regarding the new US president.The interview was published on Sunday 6 August and you can read it below: In his first email – the reply – he wrote to us: ‘Of course we’ll do the interview! We’ve got a bit of work on our hands these days, of course: my second son is getting married here at our house this Saturday. But I think your questions will be a pleasant break for me.” In his second email – let’s call it an apology – a few days later, he wrote to us: “Please forgive me! Immediately after the wedding, I had to travel with my family to Mexico, with the result that both my time and my concentration vanished.” But it was for the best and well worth the wait. Because this particular author, apart from being an authentic writer, is also a kind man. And he was not only consistent but also friendly in his conversation with ‘To Vima’. The 72-year-old Tobias Wolff is no stranger to the Greek reading public. In 2008, Polis Publications released his semi-autobiographical novel *The Old School* – that unforgettable portrait of the poet Robert Frost, among others! – and a year later the wonderful novella *The Camp Thief*, for which he had won, in 1985, the prestigious Pen/Faulkner Award. However, the publication by Ikaros of his exceptional collection *The Warrior’s Joy and Other Stories* came as a necessary complement. Precisely because Tobias Wolff, now a professor at Stanford University, is considered one of the leading short story writers in the US, a master of the short form, which proves to be larger than life when handled by the right hands. The recent Greek edition is a well-balanced anthology of ten of his short stories, ranging from his first collection, In the Garden of North American Martyrs (1981), to a piece published a few years ago in The New Yorker. Stories such as ‘Hunters in the Snow’, ‘An Episode in the Life of Professor Brook’, ‘The Liar’ and the later ‘A Bullet in the Head’ – what a text indeed; in a single, dense paragraph we see what goes on in a man’s mind when a bullet practically pierces his brain! — are not only technically flawless but also create a narrative depth that even voluminous novels would envy. However, if we consider the case of Tobias Wolff in terms of his representativeness in the domestic literary scene, we find that there are outstanding issues worth addressing, namely his two autobiographical works: This Boy’s Life (1989), in which he describes the eventful coming-of-age of ‘Toby’ —this book was adapted for the cinema by Michael Caton-Jones, starring Robert De Niro, Leonardo DiCaprio and Helen Birkin—and *In Pharaoh’s Army: Memories of the Lost War (1994), in which the author gives a harrowing account of his involvement in the Vietnam War, a traumatic experience for the US.  Mr Wolf, as you are something of a reclusive writer, it is worth asking: are you writing anything at the moment? ‘Indeed, I am currently writing a new book, a novel. I’ve been working on it for a few years now and I hope to finish it within the year, by Christmas – but for writers, deadlines (as Lenin once said of promises in general) are like pies, their crusts are made to be broken’. I know you don’t like being classified within the literary movement of ‘dirty realism’. But what do you think they mean, especially by the word ‘dirty’?Honestly, I don’t know. Realism as a literary style – not to say almost by definition – has always dealt with the most difficult, brutal and dark aspects of human nature and experience. Contemporary writers who have been categorised in this way, who have been – who we have been – labelled with this mysterious tag, suggesting we belong to such a movement, did not – and do not – do anything more strikingly ‘dirty’ than our predecessors. What can I say, it seems it’s still used simply because it’s catchy. We can discern personal experiences in your fiction, but also recurring themes in your work. I wonder, however, about the two memoirs, the autobiographical texts: did you write them because you believe they are unique experiences, or because you consider that they more broadly cover an important part of the American experience in the 20th century?The structure, the very form of my experience – the way in which my life took shape and as described in these two autobiographical narratives — always seemed to me to be inherently fictional in itself, that it needed none of the inventions of fiction, that it required neither the reconstruction of reality nor any embellishment. And I did, in fact, think it would be worthwhile to express and record all of this, to describe the events that make up the coming of age of a young American and, subsequently, to follow that same person to the front lines of a war. My other works – and those you allude to – although also based on certain personal experiences of mine, required me, the writer, to approach them more through my imagination. And that, I must tell you, is an instinct one develops when writing.” The United States has a long tradition of the short story, dating back to the 19th century. To what, I wonder, is this largely attributable? To the writers themselves or to the readers? ‘In reality, very few Americans read short stories. Even today, the most popular reads here are those multi-page ‘bricks’—the highly sentimental and extremely poorly written books that also have pretentious, bombastic titles, the so-called ‘blockbuster’ books. Every now and then something good pops up, a literary work of substance stands out, but it’s usually a novel. Short stories – like poetry – appeal only to a minority of readers.” Something that holds true everywhere, I think… “Yes, and it’s a shame because the short story is a very exciting genre and rewards the reader in many ways. The short story is a lofty, noble form. Besides, it is also a highly diverse form; there are so many different kinds of short story — from the Italian Calvino to Raymond Carver, from Ernest Hemingway to Jorge Luis Borges and Alice Munro — that only a fool would impose prerequisites and rules on their writing. In any case, the best one can say about short stories is that they must be interesting, and linger in the reader’s mind for quite some time after they have closed the book. In your short story ‘The Liar’ we read that ‘a solipsist is someone who believes that they create everything around them’. Is a good writer a solipsist? ‘Far from it; a good writer is the opposite of a solipsist, his gaze is unwaveringly fixed on a world that is ceaselessly charming and captivating by its very nature, and the good writer honours through his work both the complexity and the harsh underpinning that exist in the reality of this world. Furthermore, the good writer is the opposite of a liar. He is the one who seeks the truth, the one who understands that we must expand and use our imagination in order to discern and confront the truth, as far as we are allowed to. In the same short story, Dr Murphy says something strange, that ‘perhaps unpleasant things are more interesting’. And the question is: can there be literature without problematic situations?It is very difficult to imagine literature without problematic situations. It is problems that make literature happen, precisely because they force people to make their choices, for better or for worse. In this way, in any case, people reveal themselves or become themselves. Problems are the stories. Just imagine for a moment an ‘Iliad’ in which Agamemnon sails in great comfort and arrives quickly at Troy – at Ilion, in any case – the city walls come tumbling down like a house of cards, a wonderful peace is immediately made with Priam, Hector and Achilles become the best of mates, and Menelaus simply gives Paris a friendly pat on the back and returns with the lovely Helen to their home, where, thereafter, they lived happily ever after. How boring! Where is the moment when, just before the duel with Achilles, Hector’s young son frightens everyone with his father’s helmet? Where is Patroclus, killed by Hector whilst wearing Achilles’ armour? where is Priam, begging for the dishonoured body of his dead son, where is the Trojan Horse, where is the city engulfed in flames? But how much do we love these tragedies in the end – these problems!’ In the short story ‘Sleepless’, Richard reads the ‘Odyssey’ and gets bored. Has that ever happened to you? “No! I really like the ‘Odyssey’, but the ‘Iliad’ is perhaps the literary text I love most of all genres, from all eras, timelessly. Once I drove all the way from Athens to Mycenae, in an incredible heatwave, just to show my daughter—who had also become obsessed with the ‘Iliad’—the famous Lion Gate. She considers the photograph I took of her standing near the Gate to be one of the most precious gifts I have ever given her, and she is very proud of it. I love ancient Greek drama very much; in fact, I taught it at university, particularly Aeschylus’s ‘Oresteia’ trilogy. And to turn to more contemporary figures: Elytis, Cavafy, Kazantzakis, George Seferis and Yannis Ritsos are some of the Greek writers who have more recently found a place on my bookshelf.” At this stage of your life, do you return to certain authors, rereading them? “In the past, I used to return more and more to certain authors – Dickens, Melville, Hemingway, and Katherine Anne Porter, whom I personally consider a leading figure in American literature. However, in recent years I have been reading more history books; I do not return to literary texts, but rather I am looking for a different perspective on the same historical period that interests me; I am trying to see how another historian interprets the same set of events.”  Can technology, the so-called digital age, have a substantial impact on literature, on the way we write and read? ‘I’d rather not answer that; I’ve no idea what we mean by the digital age; I’m not in the know.’ In 2015, you received the National Medal of Arts from then-President Barack Obama. What was it like? “It was a wonderful day for me and my wife, but also for the friends who accompanied us to the ceremony, because we already had great admiration for both President Obama and his wife Michelle. At the end of that day, I remember, we were overwhelmed by a sense of sweetness, a tenderness.” Are your fellow countrymen interested in writers’ opinions? Does the public discourse articulated by writers in the US have any influence? “I hope so! Because literature allows us to step into lives other than our own, to enter other souls. When we manage to imagine ourselves as someone else, we become more cautious about judging and condemning others. Because we see in them a reflection of our own human condition, and this deepens our understanding of humanity as a whole; we see it as a community rather than a war of all against all.” I now think that many of your heroes – ordinary people testing their limits – might have voted for Donald Trump, if they were real. That doesn’t mean they would necessarily all be bad people. But they would have... Why? ‘Donald Trump’s election is a disaster for our country. I’m still trying to come to terms with it and accept it. I really cannot understand what could possibly drive someone to vote for a proven bigot, a man who – by his own admission – mistreats women, someone who mocks the public with his so-called ‘university’, a common thief not only of his employees’ hard-earned labour but also of their personal belongings, a pathological liar, an admirer of the most bloodthirsty tyrants, an ignoramus who believes that climate change is a hoax orchestrated by China, and so much more... But all this was known on election day. I mean, this is Donald Trump. And he is consistent with who he is – I’ll give him that, he is consistently dishonest and repulsive. He has managed to completely disrupt our daily lives in the United States and has made us the laughing stock of the rest of the planet. I feel deeply embarrassed and ashamed about this.”

Dimitris Nollas, on the occasion of the publication of his book The Garden in Flames (the third part of the Difficult Times trilogy), spoke with Dionysis Marinos in the newspaper Eleftheria tou Tupou.The interview was published on Monday 19 June and you can read it below: What if Greece were an amateur theatre troupe? And what if the play they were staging ended with a ‘forest’ of flames that would leave nothing intact in its wake? Does destruction also contain the seed of creation? Dimitris Nollas, having completed the trilogy ‘Difficult Times’, speaks to ‘Eleftheria tou Typou’ about his latest novel ‘The Garden in Flames’ and more. Mr Nollas, having completed the ‘Difficult Times’ trilogy, can we conclude with ‘what is our homeland?’ I think your question concerns the reader of the book more. For me, however, my homeland is everything I still experience in this blessed land and the joy I derive from those literary works created in the Greek language by the masters of the past, the present, and the future. Have you decided within yourselves whether we were struck by storms we could not withstand, or whether we brought them upon ourselves? Only the dead cannot withstand the storms that befall them. Man can overcome all storms. Of course, whoever provokes them is asking for trouble. Don’t you think that those who provoke storms should be prepared to foot the bill? Note that even left-wingers, when faced with power, did not hesitate to play their part.Do you think that left-wingers are immune to the cult of power? That they are angels who exist outside this world? Your heroes are part of an amateur theatre troupe. One might say that the choice is no accident. As if this troupe symbolises Greece. No, it is not a random choice. In a fictional construct, chance is controlled. Even the ritual burning at the end of the book suggests that only destruction can lead to a new beginning. Do you believe that? I believe what I write and I always take responsibility for it. I believe, therefore, that when we stray from moderation, it is always destruction that follows. This is true in society, just as it is in nature. A new beginning always comes to heal the harm caused by a catastrophe. I do not believe that a catastrophe is the end of the world. One need only recall, to stick to our modern history, the years 1897, 1922, and indeed the entire 1940s. Is there any personal responsibility for how we got here? For many years, the phrase ‘we all ate it together’ was at the heart of a fierce debate. Without personal responsibility, we have no individuals, we have a faceless mass. What made this statement so outrageous was that it was uttered by a political leader who did not have the courage, at the very moment he said it, to repent and apologise to all those sheep who followed him and voted for him, taking advantage of the handouts he showered upon them (with borrowed money, let us not forget). That is why it ‘became the focus of intense controversy’, as you say, because that condemnation stung, as it forced each of us to face up to our own personal responsibility. Further proof that this statement corresponded to reality. Such words, however, require courage, which this particular individual lacked. And he did well to withdraw from politics shortly afterwards. Let us give him credit for that. Did the ruling Left prove to be little or no Left at all? Or, in the end, is it succeeding? What do you think? Left or no left, whether it’s a lot or a little, it is obliged to manage the communal areas of the block of flats. The most important thing, however, is that, for the time being at least, it is not rummaging through our souls, but our wallets. Do hard times produce good works of art? Does literature need ‘crises’ to flourish? I think that, in any case, works of art are the fruits of intellectual crisis. Does the movement of ‘partakism’ (an excellent neologism) still exist in these times of crisis? In extreme circumstances, such as a crisis like the one we are experiencing, selfishness (‘philotomaris’ is a suitable term) evolves into the ‘partakism’ movement. In other words, the primitive feeling that I am the centre of the world becomes widespread, and thus only my personal survival will ensure the world’s continued existence. The salvation of the Universe will depend solely on my own. Others do not exist. I do not see them, I do not understand them, nor do I perceive them as my fellow creatures of God. You realise that we have already entered the antechamber of the prehistoric jungle. And if that sounds exaggerated to you, well, the antechamber of the madhouse. Are we an angry people, Mr Nolla? I don’t know. What is worrying, however, is that very few of us are angry about our own actions, about our own choices. What I do know is that, in any case, the angry person finds it hard to find a ‘solution to their drama’.

Ioulita Iliopoulou, on the occasion of the publication of the five-language anthology “The Small World, the Great World!” by Odysseas Elytis, set to music by Giorgos Kouroupos, as well as the 21st anniversary of the death of the leading Greek Nobel Prize-winning poet Odysseas Elytis, spoke with journalist Yiannis Hatzigeorgiou in the cultural supplement Filgood of the newspaper Fileleftheros in Cyprus.The interview was published on Sunday 12 March and can be read below: 21 years after the death of the leading Greek Nobel Prize-winning poet Odysseas Elytis, who passed away on 18 March 1996, his partner and companion in life, the poet Ioulita Iliopoulou, sheds light on the unseen aspects that have been inextricably linked to his existence and art all these years. Where does poetry stand today, Ms Iliopoulou? Where we are, I would say, with all that that implies. It is, after all, a very internal process within us, which, whilst it seems to follow our concerns, often dictates them; whilst it seems to capture our thoughts in language, it often provokes them. It is energy, power, for the writer perhaps, for the reader certainly – and it is there, unseen or visible, with him.What is the difference between writing poems and living poetically – or even placing oneself within the poetic function? For me, poetry, the poetic function and art are almost synonymous. The code of expression changes each time: language when it becomes poetry, sound when it becomes music, and so on. To live poetically, however, as you say, if it is not identified with the meaning given by Hölderlin when he wrote ‘all toil, and yet poetically dwells man upon this earth’ and is interpreted in its current, distorted sense, I do not know if it bears any relation to the deeper meaning of the poetic function. That which demands vigilance, transformation, boldness, sometimes arbitrariness, devotion, struggle, perseverance. To live amidst this constant stirring of one’s mind and soul, in constant vigilance, yes, that could truly be poetic! What is the ‘little and essential’ of life, according to Odysseas Elytis, ‘the little and precise’? But life itself in its elemental truth, in the purity of its sources, in the clarity of feelings, in the grandeur of thought, in the strength of the soul, in the reading of the secrets of its signs. How did he himself live his daily life? And in what way did he transform simple, everyday things into poetry? Just as poetry is transcendence, the overcoming of contradictions, free and combinatory imagination, but also order and definition, so too can the poet become a creator of wonders, yet at the same time he is a persistent cultivator, armed with ‘reason and dreams’. Elytis lived with order and a routine, devoted to his work, always very simply. He undoubtedly accepted stimuli, but the thematic core of his poems was not detectable – most often, even at a superficial level – within current reality. A particularly internal process gave meaning to his themes and transformed them linguistically.  Photo: Alexandra Argyri‘Alone I ruled my sorrow… Alone I despaired of death…’. It is customary for us, as readers of poets, to imagine them – removed from all social interaction – in their solitude, creating, brooding, falling alone and then rising again, drawing courage from a secret strength that springs from within them. Was that how Elytis operated too? Spirituality is one thing, antisocial behaviour another; introspection is one thing, melancholy another. Elytis did not have a good relationship with melancholy, nor with isolation. He had loves, friends and collaborators throughout his life and always adopted a positive attitude towards life, with all its problems and difficulties. His focus on the essential, his deep faith in the power of poetic art, and his constant search for the crucial, constituted a way of life, of action and of responding to adversity.How did the poet work? How many hours did he devote to his poetry each day? The rhythm of daily life and work, in any case, changes according to the different phases of our lives. Elytis always worked on his writing, whether it was poetry or prose. When he was immersed in a project, he worked systematically from the morning, with short breaks to deal with practical matters. The hours of the night were always the most productive. Did he himself prefer the day and the light to the darkness, even though poets are usually inspired by the latter? Elytis built his entire body of work around the theme of light, shaping a ‘solar metaphysics’ – we are not merely speaking of a physical preference, but of a concept rich in meaning. Did he demand absolute silence when he wrote? Did he isolate himself? He loved the quiet during working hours, but nothing absolute or excessive. Isolation, after all, was not a matter of physical space, but of the inner process of contemplation. Even when he wasn’t writing, did you feel that he was already writing his next works in his mind? Thoughts, words and ideas are always circulating. Of course, no one writes only when they pick up a pen. Often he would be preoccupied with a line, a missing word, which he might find at an unexpected moment outside the writing process.Were there works he particularly loved, his own or those of others? He himself loved to move on to the next one. To change form whilst remaining true to himself. He did not refer selectively to his own works. On the contrary, he often referred to Dionysios Solomos or Hölderlin. Who, in his opinion, could be called a poet? I think that the work, and ultimately time, history, bestow titles and names. Elytis’s choices in his prose writings set the standard; they convey with absolute clarity the scope and the defining distinction of the meaning of ‘poetry’ and, by extension, ‘poet’.How did Odysseas Elytis’s human sensitivity and spirituality combine with the intellectual power of his thought, with his vigorous yet at the same time lyrical writing?  I see nothing contradictory in what you say. Spirituality and intellectual power, lyricism and sensitivity, are complementary and reciprocal pairs, good conduits of their energy.The world, because whilst it is small, it is at the same time great, just as the title of the excellent Ikaros publication you recently edited suggests? Was this also the world of Odysseas Elytis?  The small, humble elements of this world are those that have the greatest significance, value and endurance. Whether it is a mint leaf, a seashore, a word or an embrace. The world of small units presented in ‘Doxastikon’, for example, captures both the grandeur of the mystery of existence and the essence of his own Greek identity. Tell us about this new edition: ‘The Small World, the Great World!’ by Odysseas Elytis, with music by Giorgos Kouroupos”, published by Ikaros Publications… It is a portrait of the poet, a brief yet substantial exploration of Elytis’s autobiographical and essayistic writings, accompanied by an anthology of characteristic poetic fragments that reveal, to the initiated reader and, above all, to the uninitiated, his poetic principles and his value system. The poet’s visual works—tempera paintings and collages, as well as photographic material—adorn the publication, which encompasses not only the image but also the sound of poetry. Recitations, musical accompaniments alongside the spoken word, but above all Elytis’s poetry set to music by Giorgos Kouroupos, are captured on the two CDs included. This is a magnificent musical setting, which succeeds in offering all the delight of a joyful lyrical listening experience through enchanting songs, whilst also demonstrating the deep connection between the word and the musical phrase, thus leading the listener deeper into the magic of the poetic world. At the same time, all this material—both poetry and prose—is rendered in four other languages. Translations into English, French, Italian and Spanish are included in this five-language anthology.How did you discover this magic of Odysseas Elytis? In other words, what was the point at which Odysseas Elytis became the most important of all to you personally, to your daily life, to his presence – even in his absence today? My first real encounter with him – with his work, I mean – took place when I was a schoolgirl and read ‘Three Poems with a Flag of Convenience’. From a collection of, one might say, idiosyncratic theoretical poems, I subsequently came to appreciate the lyricism, the philosophical reflection and the magic of his language. This encounter continues – I mean my engagement with and study of his work. What, however, were the difficulties of living alongside one of the most significant figures of Greek intellectual life? Elytis never lost his sense of human proportion. He lived simply, applying the principles of his work to his life; he lived honouring the little and the precious, the essential, the humble things that can be priceless. He had great energy, a positive attitude towards life, and respect for others. He gave space to those he loved; he was keen for others to find their own path. All these things are precious in a shared existence.In what moments is he present in your life today? Well, the people we love live within us anyway. Elytis, in fact, is constantly present. Don’t forget that a large part of my work – apart from my own writing – is connected to his work. I study his work, I collaborate with translators and scholars on it, and I recite his poetry. Elytis was also the poet who, through his art, celebrated Greece, its beauty and its islands like few others… What was his own relationship with the sea, with travel, which islands did he love? Insularity in his poetry is a distinct theme, one that is present and evolves throughout his entire body of work. It is simply, I would say, the identity of the Greek; it is his fingerprint, a mark created by art, history and the natural landscape. Elytis travelled extensively throughout the Greek islands. Spetses, as the place where he spent his summers as a child, shaped, I would say, his island consciousness. Later, of course, the Cyclades were a destination for exploration, as he encountered these islands in their unspoilt state.Did he distinguish Cyprus from Greece? He loved Cyprus – beyond the fact that it had been his refuge for a few months during the dictatorship in Greece – he honoured its history, admired the industriousness of many Cypriots, and worried about its fate. How could he distinguish Cyprus from Greece, you ask, since, as he wrote, ‘where the language is, there is the homeland’? Did he realise the extent of his own importance? He had no conceit, if that is what you are referring to.Did he not even believe, when he was awarded the Nobel Prize, that he was truly important and memorable? The Nobel Prize did not change anything in his life. It perhaps took two years of his work, because he was forced to respond to certain proposals, deal with a huge volume of correspondence, and undertake journeys. But with the same dedication as before, as soon as the great commotion of the Nobel Prize had died down, he returned to his same small office, to his writing, battling ‘the “No” and the “Impossible” of this world’. ‘‘I lived on nothing / words alone were not enough for me…’. In what circumstances were words alone – and only words – enough for him? Words are never enough, because we carry on writing and searching for a new formulation, a different way of capturing a fresh thought. Did he have friends? Did he enjoy socialising? Or was he particularly – and very – selective in that regard too? Of course he had friends. Empeirikos, Moralis, Gatsos and many others were suddenly his close friends. Evangelos Louizos, for example, the publisher Nikos Karydis, Takis Horn. In fact, he maintained friendships dating back to his university days, friendships that lasted until the end of his life. Love is also a significant part of his poetry. How did he perceive it? As yet another god? As something innocent? As something that, when it happens, silences all other aspects of existence? Love is a primary element in his work, permeating his writing, existing either as a romantic conception of the world, or as sensibilities refined by the intellect, or as a natural approach. It is love ‘in each other’s embrace’, but also the belief ‘that love is not what we know, nor what the magicians claim. But a second life, unblemished, in eternity’. You were, Ms Iliopoulou, that slender girl with long black hair, always by the poet’s side and in literary circles. What do you retain in your memory today from all those images? What I retain is not a memory, but the desire to exist with the same purity, respect and love towards the creations of the mind and art – towards life. When did you first encounter poetry? If you mean when I started writing, quite young, at primary school. How much has your perspective on it changed since you ‘met’ Elytis? I met Elytis early in my life. For me, then and now, he represented and continues to represent the embodiment of marvellous richness of content and expression – I’m telling you this just as I expressed it back then, as a schoolgirl. Of all the things he used to tell you from time to time, which is the one you would take with you for today’s world? Of all that he told us, to everyone, and tells us daily through his work, let us conclude with the exhortation to seek within our reality ‘the deepest meaning of a humble paradise, which is our true self, our right, our freedom, our second and true moral sun”. Find out more about the five-language anthology “The Small World, the Great World!” by Odysseas Elytis, set to music by Giorgos Kouroupos.

Christos Giannaras, on the occasion of the publication of his two most recent books, *Ontology of the Person* (Person-centred Ontology), and Here and Beyond (Attempts at Ontological Interpretation), spoke with journalist Yiannis Hatzigeorgiou in the magazine Philgood, published by the newspaper Phileleftheros in Cyprus.The interview was published on Sunday 12 February and you can read it below:The philosopher, academic, thinker and ―above all― one of the few remaining intellectuals in Greece continues, in one of his rare interviews, to remain incisive, bold, and at times ‘heretical’, boldly posing new questions for reflection in every answer he gives.The living room of the author and one of the most significant contemporary Greek thinkers, philosophers and professors of philosophy—noted for his public discourse and writings (at Panteion University, though he has taught philosophical terminology and methodology, political philosophy and cultural diplomacy at universities in Paris – he is, after all, a Doctor of Philosophy from the Faculty of Humanities at the Sorbonne University—as well as in Geneva, Lausanne, New York, Boston, Belgrade, etc.) is not filled with books, studies – let alone his own extensive bibliography – but, on the contrary, with framed photographs of his loved ones, mementos from his travels, and small but undoubtedly precious objects. It was very cold that Friday evening when we met, in the little alley where he lives and works, opposite the church of Agios Charalambos, in Nea Smyrni. ‘The old folks were right to build houses with small windows rather than large panes,’ he remarked at one point, smiling. He treated me to some mastic ouzo, poured himself a glass too – ‘it’s just the thing for this sort of weather,’ he said, and sat down in the armchair by the fireplace. He asked me a few things about Cyprus, mentioning specific names of politicians and arguing for or against his opinion of certain ones, concluding that ‘Cyprus pays for our empty faces’ and remained silent for a moment. ‘Savvopoulos was spot on with that line,’ he concluded. A few days ago, you wrote in an article: ‘In Greek society, nothing is renewed with the passing of time. Unbiased, fundamentally realistic thinking also rules out hope. We know the human quality of those who manage our lives, the effectiveness of the institutions and functions of public life, the laws of the jungle that prevail in our much-vaunted cultural ‘model’. All of this rules out hope.” So should we expect utter destruction in the future? And to what extent?What I personally conclude, Mr Hatzigeorgiou, from history and human experience, is that only a realistic awareness of reality can give rise to the surprise of a recovery. The hopes of the Greeks in 1821 were nil: the Ottoman Empire held overwhelming superiority, and the authoritative power of the ‘Holy Alliance’ in Europe ruled out any possibility of rebellion against the established balance of power. A similar overwhelming imbalance existed in the Greeks’ confrontation with the ‘Axis Powers’ in 1940. In both cases, the surprise stemmed from the Greeks’ consistent and utter despair: they knew what they risked losing, and it was unthinkable to them that they should lose it. Today we cling to ‘optimism’ – we dare not despair, because we have nothing of value to defend. What is most valuable to us today are our ‘individual rights’ and the maximisation of our consumer freedom. Yet we can, more or less, retain these even whilst enslaved – to the Turks or to the ‘Markets’.It seems that this ‘crisis’ is not merely circumstantial or temporary; many, countless signs point rather to an unstoppable momentum towards the historical end of Hellenism. What you write sounds terrifying – your reference to an ‘end’. As if every trace of hope, of optimism for the future, has been lost… Perhaps the reference to a historical end seems like an exaggeration to you. But consider this: is there today any element, any quality, that Hellenism bestows upon the Greek (whether from mainland Greece, Cyprus or the diaspora) which is so precious that without it, their life would no longer have meaning? In other words, an element for which they are prepared to die, so as not to lose it? When Cypriot politicians today haggle over terms that will make the Turkish minority and the invaders the arbiters of Greek life, or when Greek politicians hand their country over to humiliating trusteeship, that is, to a complete surrender of national independence, sovereignty and self-determination, does it shock you that we speak of the ‘historic end’ of Hellenism?Speaking of ‘Cypriot politicians haggling over terms that will make the Turkish minority and the invaders the arbiters of Greek life’, are you also referring to the ‘end of Cypriot Hellenism’ which some have been emphasising almost from the outset of the latest – critical – talks on the Cyprus issue? I am not referring to individuals, I am referring to the fact of the ‘negotiations’. To the unthinkable absurdity of a supposedly independent state, a member of the EU, with a democratically elected leadership, is haggling over its own self-destruction, its submission to the outrageous demands of a domestic minority and to the blackmail of brutal occupiers condemned by all international organisations. Hellenism has every right on its side and, unfortunately, elects leaders of pygmy stature to defend those rights. What, then, must be done, in general, to change the current situation – if it is to change at all? Must sweeping, structural changes take place? Beyond the state and the citizens? Given the fatal decline of Hellenism today, it is utopian to discuss what ‘must’ be done. Even if we were to agree on certain ‘musts’ (which seems impossible), who will then enforce them? The comical little men who govern us? The courts? The police? The citizens, however, do not bear the main responsibility for what is happening today, Mr Giannaras? ‘The most nightmarish of all afflictions is the complete numbing of Greek society’s reflexes,’ you write… Which citizens are we talking about who bear the responsibility for this disgrace and destruction? For the last 43 years – since 1974 – educational policy in Greece and Cyprus has systematically engineered the linguistic and intellectual incapacity of the masses (it is well known that people without language are people without thought), and the complete distortion of their historical consciousness. And the infectious influence of radio and television complements and completes their impoverishment. For only voters who have lost their reason, their judgement and their dignity are capable of sustaining such a debased political class as that which represents Hellenism, both in mainland Greece and Cyprus, over the last few decades – with the unforgettable exception, throughout Greece, of Tassos Papadopoulos. If the Greek people bear any responsibility for the ruin and disgrace in which they are now mired, that responsibility lies solely in the fact that they did not revolt. But even the possibility of revolt has been discredited and ridiculed by the nihilism and amorality of the so-called ‘left-wing progressive and modernising forces’.What do you mean when you refer to ‘revolution’ and ‘uprising’? Armed revolutions, as you understand, are now impossible. I mean, for the key institutions of collective life to react: the judicial authorities, university senates, bar associations, teachers in every school, cultural institutions and associations; for citizens to take to the streets and demonstrate their faith in freedom and dignity. It is unthinkable that people’s humanity should be put at risk and haggled over by politicians whom no one would ever entrust with running even a newsstand.Do the Greeks ‘suffer’ from immaturity, an obsession with the past, a superficial approach to handling difficult situations and ‘spoilt behaviour’, in comparison with other peoples, as they are ‘accused’ of? Has the ‘glorious past’ ultimately done a disservice to the current inhabitants of Greece?My personal opinion is that we modern Greeks suffer only or mainly from pretentiousness, just like all those newly liberated Third Worlders who are dazzled by beads and trinkets. We neither understand nor care about the cultural contribution that Hellenism has made and continues to make to humanity – we are only interested in the tacky kitsch produced by Elladex (Greek and Cypriot) for tourists. Ask an MP from AKEL or ‘New Democracy’ to answer this: why is the Parthenon a more important monument than the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building? When, from the generation of Evagoras Pallikarides, Karaolis and Dimitriou, Grigoris Afxentiou, or the generation of Seferis, Elytis, Tsarouchis and Manos Hadjidakis, we are separated by a mere few decades, to what factors can we attribute the rapid decline of Hellenism into today’s nightmare? It is abundantly clear that, in an era where technological progress has created unprecedented opportunities for mass manipulation, these opportunities have been exploited, primarily in Greece and Cyprus, by people of tragically low calibre.What connection do you think there is between the Greeks of Greece and the Greeks of Cyprus? Many people observe a different mindset, different ways of reasoning and different approaches to historical adversity, different points of reference and ways of thinking… Your question raises a very interesting issue: from my personal experience, my impressions and my reading, I have formed the opinion (without claiming that it is the correct one) that there was a crucial difference, up until the mid-20th century, between Hellenism in mainland Greece and Hellenism ‘in the periphery’, as they were called at the time – the Hellenism of Egypt, Asia Minor, Pontus, Crimea and the Danubian regions. Hellenism outside mainland Greece tended to preserve a sense of the superiority of Hellenic identity and no sense of inferiority vis-à-vis Western Europeans. This sense allowed the Greeks to adopt the achievements of Western modernity to serve their own needs, not to avoid lagging behind the Europeans in modernisation. Thus, the adoption of Western elements was assimilative rather than imitative; the critical adoption of Western customs and institutions did not in the slightest diminish the Greekness of the Greeks – they chose, they did not mimic. In mainland Greece, unfortunately, due to Bavarian rule following Kapodistrias, and the inferiority complex (coupled with snobbery) cultivated by the quisling collaborators of the era, followers of Korais, a servile inferiority complex and a lifeless imitation of the West prevailed, accompanied by a deep contempt for anything Greek… As this is a crucial issue, allow me to refer to a relevant book I have written, entitled: ‘Europe was born of the Schism’, published by ‘Ikaros’.Cypriot Hellenism, I believe, embodied the same sense of superiority over the West, right up until the island was declared an independent (?) state. The active Greek self-awareness of the Cypriots gave birth to Hellenism’s last great breath: the EOKA liberation struggle. I cannot forget, as a child at the time, the iconic figure of Polykarpos Ioannides, who wore, all his life, traditional Cypriot ‘alantza’ costumes, thereby undermining the English ‘cashmere’.This conscious Greek identity seems to have been lost for good with Cyprus’s ‘independence’. Cypriot society has changed rapidly and relentlessly into a sad imitation of Greek decline and disgrace. Why do you question Cyprus’s independence? And, furthermore, what do you mean when you say that ‘Cypriot society has changed rapidly and relentlessly into a sad imitation of Greek decline and disgrace’? In a single interview, it is not possible to present a documented and therefore convincing account of a social reality. I dare to make allusions that refer to the attestations of shared experience. It is clear to any rational person that the Greek Cypriot community has established a state, yet its state is not independent; it is a captive of the power of an international terrorist, Turkey, which provocatively denies the very basics of logic and international law, rewarded by the ‘enlightened and illustrious nations of the West’, our own, those pretentious idols. As for the sad Cypriot imitation of Greek decline and disgrace, it is up to each individual to recognise the parallel. At least in terms of intelligence and dignity.In many of your writings, you speak of ‘Greeks’ rather than ‘Greeks from Greece’. Why? Yes, because the majority of the population, simply and coincidentally, inhabits Greek soil, with the mindset and behaviour of a globalised consumer. A Greek under the age of 50 today does not understand Papadiamantis or Roidis; he does not know what ‘I fight for the victorious General’ means. When one hears the ‘Greek’ spoken by George Papandreou, Costas Simitis, Dimitris Christofias and Nicos Anastasiades, one is convinced that a history of three and a half thousand years of Hellenism is ending in disgrace.Isn’t what you say about these particular politicians rather harsh – and perhaps unfair? That, dear Mr Hatzigeorgiou, let us leave to our readers to judge. I judge the ‘Greekness’ of our politicians as a teacher, not as a supporter or opponent. Has realism always been the compass of your thinking, writing and teaching? Have you never resorted to… ‘magic’?I think we have become addicted to operating in a consumerist manner, and our consumerist naivety is fed mainly by ‘impressions’. And even the most insignificant or wretched product can lay claim to titles of quality thanks to ‘packaging’ that makes a good impression. Even someone who is blatantly delusional or utterly corrupt can be elected prime minister or president of the Republic, if they spend a fortune on their advertising and succeed in ‘brainwashing’ the masses. With this ‘logic’, we label as ‘optimism’ or ‘pessimism’, ‘realism’ or ‘utopia’, whatever the well-oiled mechanisms of impression-making would have us believe. We are slaves to ‘effects’, to emotions, to sensational headlines, to the propaganda of television ‘news’.I wonder: over all these years, have you ever been ‘inconsistent’ in your views, exercising the right of a person to reconsider what they once believed, given that the surrounding environment and circumstances change?Allow me to observe that a person’s ‘views’—every person’s—their ‘opinions’ and ‘beliefs’ are, as a rule, individual choices, preferences and inclinations that are, at their core, arbitrary in nature. In today’s cultural ‘paradigm’, this arbitrariness is enshrined as an individual ‘right’ – the conventions that enshrine individual rights have the authoritative force of laws that are ‘binding on all’. The basis of our ‘civilisation’, in other words, is the enshrinement of ‘freedom’ as an individual right of choice, a legal shield for the unchecked indulgence of impulses, appetites and interests. This is why the protection of rights, when it establishes the terms of collectivity, equates civilisation with the barbarism of individualism, not with the exercise of freedom that is the society of relationships. Consequently, whatever is an individual choice (views, opinions, beliefs) we can easily change. However, whatever is the fruit of the endeavour of self-transcendence—that is, freedom from the ‘self’ in order to attain the shared truth of the relationship (of faith and trust, of love and self-giving)—does not change. Its expressive form may mature, but the intended goal remains unchanged. Many describe you as a ‘philosopher’ – and ‘heretical’. Certainly one of the very few in Greece who continue to articulate a discourse. What do such labels mean to you? In the Greek tradition, we attribute labels that embody moderation and modesty. A ‘philosopher’ is not the wise man, the one who possesses wisdom; he is the ‘friend’ of wisdom, the lover of knowledge, the one who loves the truth and seeks it. The title of ‘philosopher’, therefore, is an honour and a compliment. The meaning of the word ‘heretic’ has today strayed far from the original meaning the Greeks attributed to it. Today, ‘heresy’ refers to the notion of truth as ideology, that is, as an individual choice of definitively (or even infallibly) formulated ‘beliefs’. The ‘heretic’ questions or even rejects the codes of certainty of ideology; they have chosen individual ‘beliefs’ that do not align with the ‘principles’ and certainties that are obligatory for the ‘faithful’ followers of the ideology. Thus, the word ‘heretic’ has today taken on a rather positive connotation: it refers to the person who questions the ‘infallible’ dogmas of ideologies, the rigid, mandatory ‘beliefs’. It refers to a person who seeks empirical access to the truth. These, then, are roughly what the terms ‘philosopher’ and ‘heretic’ mean to me. Much has been written and said about your views in relation to religion. In simple terms: what does Orthodoxy mean to you today? Orthodoxy has come to be the name we give to the Greek version of the Christian Church, the Greek experience and witness of the ecclesiastical reality. The Church is not just another religion, even if it is ‘better’ than the others. It is a reality, a way, a means of revealing the truth – and ‘truth’ is existence free from time, space, decay and death. The Greeks had called it the ‘church of the demos’, not merely a general assembly of citizens, but the act, the work of ‘poiein’ the political: for citizens to realise and reveal the ‘polis’, that is, another way of being and coexisting that aims no longer merely at necessity (the society of need) but at truth (the society of the true, at harmony according to reason, at civility). It was with this very same Greek meaning that Christians adopted the word ‘ekklesia’: a gathering that realises and reveals the true ‘way’ of existence and coexistence, freedom from the necessities of self-centred impulses – freedom of erotic self-transcendence and self-offering.To conclude, a question – a personal query of mine – to a man like you: what is the meaning of life, Mr Giannaras? The meaning of life cannot, fortunately, be found in a formula, in a ‘should’. Can we ever experience love by following recipes, advice or exhortations? The meaning of life, just like love, is bestowed as an antidote to the exercise of realising freedom from the ‘self’. That is why, within a cultural ‘paradigm’ founded on the absolute priority of shielding the ‘self’, both the ‘meaning’ of life and love are achievements reserved for only a few stubborn souls. Photo: Penelope Masouri