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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.

An exhibition and visual tribute to Giorgos Seferis will take place at the Municipal Tobacco Warehouse in Kavala from 2 to 28 August as part of the 59th Philippi Festival.The opening will take place on Tuesday 2 August at 8.00 pm, and the exhibition consists of the following three sections: The Photographer Giorgos Seferis, In the Style of G. S., and Yannis Moralis’s Pictorial Commentaries on the Poems of Giorgos Seferis.The first section, The Photographer George Seferis, is organised in collaboration with the National Bank of Greece Cultural Foundation, featuring an exhibition of photographs taken by the poet himself, serving as irrefutable testimony to the care with which Seferis approached every aspect of his work.The second section, In the Manner of G. S., is presented by the Ianos Art Gallery under the artistic direction of Mikri Arktos and curated by Iris Kritikou. The exhibition features scenes of life and inspiration, scenes from Greece during the two world wars and the turbulent political and social life that followed, as well as notable collaborations by the artist, present a rich tapestry of images that sketch the personality of this important Greek poet.The third section, presented in collaboration with the Zoumboulakis Gallery, features Yannis Moralis’s pictorial commentaries on the illustrations for the edition of Poems by George Seferis. Seferis himself had said of these particular works: ‘I have rarely succeeded in pairing the arts. For me, it was always something like two horses harnessed to the same cart that suddenly pull in opposite directions. So it was with great hesitation that I listened to Ikaros’s idea of asking Yannis Moralis to illustrate my poems.” Admission to the exhibition is free.Monday to Friday: 10:00–14:00 Wednesday: 19:00–21:30 Friday: 19:00–21:30 Kavala Municipal Tobacco Warehouse, Kassandrou and Averof. Telephone: 2510222706. Further information on the 59th Philippi Festival can be found here.

Following the success of the play *Simigdalénios*, which ran on the Main Stage of the National Theatre for seven months, and to mark the launch of his new play, Ochinailegontas, he gave an in-depth interview to Dora Cheiraki of Ert.gr, in which, among other things, he discusses the book’s publication abroad as well as the story behind its original title. Following the acclaimed Simigdaleno, which ran for seven months on the Main Stage of the National Theatre, Alexandros Adamopoulos presents his new play, entitled Ochinailegontas, which has already been published in Turkish and English translations.The writer-translator recounts, in his own poetic, dreamlike manner, the hidden facets of his brand-new story—which, though it has endured for centuries, remains relevant—, reveals the origin of his work’s original title and takes us on a journey through magical fairy-tale stories spanning from the Middle Ages to the present day.-Mr Adamopoulos, *Ochinelegontas* comes twenty years after *Simigdaleno*. Beyond their vast differences, they share one common point: this too is written poetically. Why? Although I do not consider myself a poet, poetic language came and imposed itself on me of its own accord, quite naturally in both works, which deal with something so general, so archetypal, as love; human relationships, if you prefer. If we consider that literature deals with simple events but makes them remain ever relevant, poetic language, in this particular case, makes every word resonate more truly; it illuminates it further, giving special weight even to the slightest syllable, to every breath, to every pause. Poetry is the most condensed form of writing and conveys a greater charge of energy to the reader-spectator, and that is very important.-Does this also apply to theatre? For this particular genre, I think so; I would say absolutely yes. Simigdaleniou’s experience taught me: In his eighty productions, almost entirely different from one another, over the past twenty-five years, not a single person – spectator, director, musician, choreographer, critic, actor – has ever been puzzled and asked me why it is written poetically. For me, precision matters greatly; in the sense that I strive to write exactly what I mean; as simply as possible and with the greatest possible clarity. From this perspective, poetic language – and indeed the perfectly measured kind, with all its possible rhythms and rhymes – is the only way forward. The verses are crafted so that each has its own music, so that they laugh, hesitate, run, gasp, weep; so that they flow effortlessly. And this has appealed to important figures in the theatre. If Simigdalénios hadn’t been written poetically, it would have been a schoolteacher’s little story and the narrative a old-fashioned melodrama; whereas it isn’t like that.-Where did you draw inspiration for the distinctive title you gave your book? From an old, stray verse of mine: ‘whispering horribly with boundless ease…’. I used to write it mechanically on sheets of white paper. I wrote it whilst reading the newspaper, doing crosswords. I often recited it to Margarita Karapanou when she was writing ‘YES’; wanting to show her that she never actually says ‘yes’ but always says ‘no’.-So, how would you describe your work in a nutshell? That’s very simple: There was a man and there was a woman…-Contemporary themes, which you set, however, in a bygone era…-Yes; why not? Once upon a time, then; there was a man and there was a woman… It suits me, I like it. I live very intensely in our own time and amidst the sad problems that spring up like mushrooms every day everywhere, in our society that is so comfortable, free, sensitive and democratic, that at times—without denying reality in the slightest—I like to withdraw in order to say things that are entirely contemporary, as if they weren’t happening in the present day. Perhaps I am doing the opposite of some current approaches. Instead of, for example, having Orestes speak on his mobile with Pylades, I prefer to show a young woman weeping and writhing in agony at her realisation, in a deserted inn by the light of torches, rather than leaving unscathed from a psychoanalyst’s couch. I believe it is more cathartic—both for her and for the audience. —But now, in the midst of this crisis? —Precisely… As we said: literature is news that always remains news. Obviously, the whole country is dragging itself along, groaning and gasping dangerously. We are living on a knife-edge and our lives have become unliveable. But no one, when they pick up a book to read, or when they come to the theatre, expects me to tell them whether the public debt is sustainable or not, or to tell them where they will find work. To each his own. Just because we have a public voice, there is no need to pretend to be wise by dabbling in matters we know nothing about. But everyone, even in the midst of the greatest disaster, looks for a glimmer of hope, seeks a little light; they want something alive and warm by their side. Everyone feels the need at some point to find something genuine, something true. Perhaps to look deep within themselves, to see what is going on, what is wrong with themselves. If you manage, even for a moment, to truly touch another person’s soul, that is by no means insignificant.-And isn’t the Chorus you use an anachronism?-Not at all; why? I needed a common denominator; a voice of the people, so to speak, that says things we could all think of, without any pretension. The Dance of the Guardians of Love isn’t some group of old men in tunics and fake beards down to their navels, chanting various choruses that nobody understands. It is a tremendously lively group of half-naked youths, with drums, tambourines, rattles, bells, tambourines and zurnas, which participates organically throughout the entire play and contributes decisively and with boundless enthusiasm to its Dionysian finale. The Chorus is thus completely intertwined with the play. After all, I didn’t conceive it intellectually; it was there from the start and kept me company. So why not? Could *Ochinailegontas* be staged abroad, particularly in Turkey? Look, the English translation was enjoyed by all the English people who read it. Now, as for Turkey, I don’t know; what can I say? The fact that they translated *Ohinelegontas* into their language and published it there means something. The fact that they invited me to teach it—in its English translation—at Boğaziçi University also says something. The theme of the play, however, and the way it is written certainly know no borders. The only thing that troubles me, however much it tickles me inside, is whether it might be staged first on a foreign stage without having been staged here. Is that a possibility? Perhaps. Let’s not forget, after all, that Simigdaleniou was first staged at the State Theatre ―Şehir Tiyatro― in Turkey and only later at our own National Theatre.-And how would you view the staging of Ochinelegos here? First and foremost, I like the fact that it is written in such a way that any reader can experience it by reading it on their own. -You mean, in other words, as a book? Exactly; as a book. As a self-contained literary text that anyone can read at home. Beyond that, I envisage a contemporary, very lively production, one that is ethereal, dreamlike and yet firmly grounded. Frantic, yet boundless. I imagine it not in a small, enclosed theatre, but in larger venues or even open-air theatres. Tightly interwoven with sounds and music; music that, however, always serves the Word. Without long-winded passages that drag on endlessly. With energy, with pulse, with perfectly measured movement. With a fast pace, yet unafraid of pauses or silence. Dim lighting, shadows, no stark colours or exaggerated expression. Genuine expression; no showmanship, no grimaces. A collaborative work, where everyone gives their all. Amidst the constant twists and turns, a continuous crescendo of emotion, sound and action, culminating in the finale, which requires the precision and fine-tuning of a symphony orchestra to succeed; otherwise the work sounds off-key. I hope we get to see it soon… Take care, thank you; until then, however, anyone can read it for themselves and see it as they wish.

Some very good news has reached us from Italy. Michele Serra’s novel *The Arachtoi*, published by our publishing house a few months ago in a translation by Dimitra Dotsi, is to be adapted for the big screen, directed by Francesca Archibugi!Preparations for the film are, of course, at an early stage, specifically in the process of writing the screenplay, which is being co-written by Francesca Archibugi and Francesco Piccolo.Francesca Archibugi writes and directs. She has tackled various film genres, and both her films and she herself have been honoured with awards in Italy as well as at major festivals abroad.Francesco Piccolo is a well-known author, winner of the 2014 Premio Strega, and screenwriter. He has written the screenplays for famous films by Nanni Moretti and other renowned directors. He is currently also writing the screenplay for a television series based on Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Novels. Filming is set to begin at the end of the year, and we are eagerly awaiting to see how such a unique book as *The Peasants* will be adapted for the screen.The novel, which was published last November, has won over readers and critics alike, as it combines the author’s irony and the power of his satire, which alternate with heart-wrenching moments, nostalgic lyricism and the unadulterated beauty of the writing.In addition to the Italian and Greek editions, it is also available in German, French, Spanish and Dutch, and is expected to be published soon in Portugal and Brazil.A candid account of a relationship taking root and a description of life’s journey which, however much it may loop back, ultimately moves forward. This is what this text is. I believe that, in its own way, it convinces us that it is a novel unlike any other, a narrative of the human anguish of the ‘I’ until it accepts the tenderness of the ‘We’.Manos Konteleon, Diastixo.gr The text is well-balanced, superbly translated, and you get the sense that not a single word is missing or superfluous. In short, although his choice for this series might have seemed bold at first, it was a successful one. Katerina Malakate, ‘Reading’ blog