Platon Rivellis: As every year, I trouble my friends to come and see us.
I have spoken to you many times about Vassilis Alexakis. I can say that he is one of the very few old friends I have. And when I say old, with Vassilis, we have known each other since we can remember ourselves. We have shared many things over the years.
Vassilis is well-known. You all know him. Besides being a very important writer, he is also an excellent cartoonist. And in the few attempts he made, a very good director as well. He has made two short films and one feature-length. All three were exceptional, but writing won him over.
He lives between Paris and Athens.
I envy him for various reasons and admire him. For example, because he is the least stingy person I have ever met, yet he makes the fewest expenses. This is a combination that, to me, seems almost miraculous.
I envy him because when he enters a room, all the women immediately pay attention to him, whereas I scare them all away. And when I say a room, I mean anywhere, from the neighborhood bakery to anywhere else.
And above all, through his overwhelming humor, he has given me some phrases in my life that I have kept as very good advice.
We are also neighbors because he has a house in Tinos, and I live in Syros. I can see from my house exactly the beach of Giannaki, where his house is. I have a telescope, and I can almost see his house.
So, we have many things in common.
Usually, he talks to us about anything. We just come up with a title formally. That is, he is free to tell us whatever he wants so we can ask him questions and discuss. Usually, the topics that concern him are his previous or next book.
Today’s topic is: What was the first word that man ever used? So, Vassilis.
Vassilis Alexakis: Earlier, I asked about God. What could I say about that? Look, I know that every two years, I have to write a book. It is a personal necessity for me to write a book. This is a mystery. I can’t exactly explain it, but perhaps life seems a bit poor to me, and it is necessary to have another story running parallel to mine.
I suppose it is that kind of need, but there is also an agreement with two publishers, one in Athens and one in Paris, and more or less, every two years, I must—and I also want to write a book. A novel.
So, when I finish a novel and publish it, a period of great anxiety begins for me. Not about how my book will do, whether it has been published, whether it will receive good reviews or not, or whether it will sell well or not. But rather, what the next topic will be. Because nothing is certain here; I am not sure I will find something to say, you understand?
And last time, after publishing m.Ch., I was attending events and such, but the question remained: What do I do now? What will the next one be? And after six months of beginning to despair, I thought about how languages had helped me. I have written in both languages; I continue to write in both Greek and French and self-translate. That is, I write each book twice. And I always start with the language of the novel’s characters. If they are Greek, I write in Greek; if they are French or Black, I write in French. The first version, let’s say, and immediately after, I translate it.
And I thought that languages are not only a tool for me, but also a subject in my books. I have written Mother Tongue, which is research around the letter E at Delphi. Therefore, around all words that begin with E, hence around the Greek language.
Later, one morning, I had an idea I remember it well because, of course, I remember the days when the idea for my next book comes to me, because it is extremely important. My entire life depends on it.
And I also remember the morning when the idea came to me—to learn an African language and write a novel about learning that language. That is, to make the language itself the protagonist of a novel. And to see where it would lead me. In the end, it led me to Africa, naturally, as if it were a real person.
Languages have helped me, as they help me this time too. And immediately, I wondered: What was the first word? And I realized it was a very good idea. And now I can say, because I have been working on this idea for a year, that I was not wrong. I think it is an excellent idea. My only fear was that the first word might already be known. That is, I awaited my first meeting with a French linguist, whom I would ask about this topic, and when he said, "We know nothing about it," I was relieved. I said, "How wonderful! The field is open. I can work on this."
Since then, I have met many people, many linguists in Greece and France, paleontologists. I went to Thessaloniki and held in my hands the skull of the Petralona man, which is two hundred thousand years old. So, relatively young.
So, the question is: How did speech begin? I assume that at some point, it must have begun. And I imagine it started with a single word. This is the word I am searching for. Of course, and fortunately, paleontologists disagree. They don’t know why, what pressure made humans speak. It wasn’t a decision. To discover, after all, that they had the ability to speak.
Because we don’t have a specific organ for speech. The brain, the pharynx, the tongue, and so on all participate in speech. It is a matter of a great evolutionary process. And that’s what’s fascinating—I was thrilled when I first learned that we acquired the ability to speak only a hundred thousand years ago. For paleontologists, this is a very short period. From a million years onward, they consider it a duration. But the history of speech is thought to have begun only forty thousand years ago.
That means a kind of silence lasted for sixty thousand years. And now you wonder, why did they break this wonderful silence and start this chattering that continues to this day?
Because they could communicate. When I say silence, I don’t mean they couldn’t communicate. It is assumed they communicated through gestures and cries, much like great apes do today. And they have quite an advanced way of communicating. These are things I have learned—like a student, as if doing a Ph.D. on this topic.
For example, I learned that chimpanzees have three different calls to warn their group of the presence of a predator. Depending on whether the threat comes from a bird, a quadruped, or a reptile.
Do you understand? That is, they communicate immediately. If a chimpanzee makes a specific call, the others instantly know whether to climb the trees if the danger is from a reptile. Their communication is quite advanced. I also learned, and this is fascinating, that chimpanzees and other great apes are deceivers. They are liars.
A test was conducted: A paleontologist isolates a chimpanzee from a group in a forest and buries bananas in the ground before it. Chimpanzees adore bananas. And he covers them. What is the chimpanzee’s reaction? He goes and finds the others and leads them far away from the place where the bananas are buried. And once they are far away, he sneaks back and eats them. Do you understand? We are talking about highly intelligent animals. They resemble what we read in the newspapers about politicians, ministers, and so on. That’s exactly what happens. They lead everyone somewhere else and then return. I want to say that people were able to communicate.
Now, look, I need to explain something else: for me, the goal is certainly not to learn what the first word was. My goal is different. It is to write a novel. Do you understand? It’s not just about discovering what the first word was. And then what? I need a story. I need characters. That is, an idea alone is not enough to write a novel. The first word is a good starting point, but there must be something more.
Something must happen to the characters. For example, which person would search for the first word, and for what reason? And what consequences would this have on the lives of the novel’s protagonists? So, I need a reality.
And so, I came up with the idea to include in the novel's characters a deaf-mute girl. A young deaf-mute girl. That’s another story. But I was absolutely right to do so, and I realize this in hindsight because a part of our ancestors' communication was done through gestures. They obviously had not yet developed sign language to the extent we know it today because if they had, they might never have spoken. That is, there are deaf individuals who have the option to undergo surgery to regain hearing and speech, but they refuse because their language is sign language. They do not want to change their language.
It’s as if someone asked us to undergo surgery and become Chinese. I don’t want to. And they feel no deficiency in communicating through their language. It is likely that our ancestors had not advanced sign language enough to eliminate the need for spoken language. But it is certain that they communicated through gestures, just as we do.
Moreover, paleontologists say that the gestures we use when swearing, when saying yes or no with our heads, are memories dating back a million years. That is, we continue to use our hands to convey certain things, to complement speech. This is considered a remnant of an ancient time when people communicated almost exclusively in this way.
Let me tell you something else. The word "deaf-mute" is artificial. They are not mute; they are simply deaf. They were born deaf and cannot speak because they have never heard anyone speak. They do not know what a voice is. In schools for the deaf, they have attempted to teach them to speak, but it is almost impossible because to perceive the difference between vowels, for example, they either have to touch the speaker’s throat with their hand or someone has to place their tongue in the correct position inside their mouth with a finger.
They also have no control over their voice at all naturally, since they cannot hear it—so they produce very peculiar sounds. They have been told about this, and they avoid it. That is, deaf individuals have a voice that does not resemble that of hearing people. It is cavernous, I don’t know, very strange. And, I would say, rather disturbing.
So, my decision to create characters and include a deaf-mute girl was certainly justified because it is connected to the central theme. But it is also a task, a research endeavor. In Paris, I even met actors who stage plays in sign language. There is a theater in Paris run by a very famous and beautiful actress who is completely deaf and communicates in sign language in an astonishing way. I have attended press conferences in sign language it is a masterpiece. I assure you, you do not feel the absence of spoken language at all. Of course, someone translated for us who did not understand. But it is an incredible phenomenon. She is like a magician because she speaks with gestures but also with her body and her facial expressions. She changes expressions. It is like watching images.
P.R.: Let me tell you something about your research. Digital ERT (Greek public television) interviewed me and told me, "We must always place you on the right side of the screen because on the left, we will always have someone interpreting in sign language." I said, "Why don’t you use subtitles?" They replied, "We will have subtitles as well." "So, you have an audience that is both deaf and illiterate?" It’s like wearing both a belt and suspenders. Did it ever concern you whether this word is a noun or a verb? That is, did the person who needed to communicate something he saw use a noun?
V.A.: We will discuss this; I will tell you more about this topic. There are various theories. One of them suggests that people began to speak when they started to migrate.
We don’t know, to begin with, whether they spoke before leaving Africa because we are all of African descent. The Neanderthal, who was already in Europe, remains a mystery. We don’t know where he came from. He may not have come from anywhere. Paleontologists always have this tendency to ask where someone came from as if everyone must have come from somewhere.
I don’t know if it is particularly important, but in any case, we don’t know the origin of the Neanderthal. The famous one found in Halkidiki, whose fate remains unknown, disappeared along with his family, so to speak. And we don’t know whether he spoke. However, the others who we do know spoke came from Africa in two waves. One hypothesis is that people attempted to speak because they changed countries, changed environments, and perhaps felt the need to talk about the place they had left behind. Essentially, to speak about their tribe, their past, and such matters. To develop a history.
There is also the theory of a well-known French linguist, Claude Hagège, who told me, "I believe that people first sang and then spoke." Now, we are entering a more complex issue because, although we speak using the left hemisphere of the brain, in the front area—right here, where men part their hair—this is the speech center, we process music with the other hemisphere. This explains why someone with aphasia can still sing. The two functions are separate. Those who study the brain disagree with this linguist.
There are many hypotheses. Another very fascinating one is that people spoke after they discovered fire and were able to control it and gather around it at night. Fire extended the nights of primitive humans. They were no longer forced to take shelter somewhere to protect themselves from wild animals. Fire protected them adequately, so they now had time.
Tired from hunting, they would sit around the fire. That’s what happened. And maybe then, someone wanted to tell a story. This is another perspective. There are many theories about speech.
It is not certain that the first word was simple. No, the first word might have conveyed a more complex meaning, such as: "I saw an antelope to the left of the hill. You go around the right side, and I’ll go around the other to trap it so we can kill it," and so on.
This is just a portion of the text. Due to its length, I can continue translating if you wish. Let me know how you’d like to proceed!
Now, let’s return for a moment to the deaf-mute, because this is an interesting topic. I conducted a small study, met various actors and professors of sign language, which, of course, France disregards I assume Greece does as well. However, from what I have understood, it is a complete language.
Among other things, I learned something quite positive: that this French theater company, La Bohème, is preparing to stage Antigone in sign language. And I am trying to convince them to come to Athens and perform Antigone at the Odeon of Herodes Atticus in sign language.
I even asked the lead actress how one would say Descartes’ famous phrase, "I think, therefore I am," in sign language, just to see if everything could indeed be expressed.
I cannot reproduce the gestures there weren’t many but, well, she pointed to herself, then to her head, then to "existence." Identity is expressed in this way: by leaving an imprint here. That is what it means identity. I found this translation of Descartes’ famous phrase into this new language absolutely fascinating. But their language itself has a novelistic interest.
P.R.: I have a friend with a deaf child. There is a strong view that they should not rely solely on sign language but also learn to read lips and, even if their pronunciation is poor, to speak so that they do not become isolated within the deaf community but can communicate in another way as well.
V.A.: Yes, that exists too. Look, the language they learn—however they learn it—will always remain a foreign language to them. Their mother tongue is sign language. Do you understand? That is, no matter what happens, that is their language. And, for instance, in America, where it was not banned because in France, for an entire century, when the French were prohibiting all regional languages, they also banned sign language. During recess, they would even tie the children’s hands behind their backs so they couldn’t use sign language even among themselves. This language has suffered unspeakable violence.
In America, where there was no such prohibition, there is a university for the deaf, and they even have deaf lawyers. Of course, they work with interpreters. What I mean is that they are not lacking in anything. Of course, it is useful for them to be able to communicate with others.
I want to talk to you about the novelistic aspect of this character, who is not the central figure of the book but plays an important role. For example, one discovery was that deaf people are afraid of the dark. Because when it gets dark, they can no longer communicate. The dark prevents them from speaking. So, they sleep with the lights on. And they leave the hallway light on as well. I already have a scene like this in my novel: the deaf girl (let’s just call her deaf to simplify things) sleeps with the lights on in her room and in the hallway of the house where she works.
But I also learned something else: that deaf people talk in their sleep—in sign language, of course. That is, they dream of people with whom they communicate in sign language, so in their sleep, they continue making gestures. I found that remarkable.
And another thing: in France, there are religious services conducted by priests who perform the entire ceremony in sign language. And what is most incredible? That there are choirs composed of deaf individuals. That is, in the back of the church, deaf people gather and recite the text of the psalms in their language sign language but they do so rhythmically. And they must say it all together.
So, the concept of a choir exists even for the deaf. It is a silent choir, but there is someone conducting it, ensuring that the text is conveyed with some rhythm, as if sung. That is to say, in any topic one investigates, one finds amazing things that are extremely useful for a novel. Now, what else can I tell you about words? Naturally, the protagonists of this book are Greek because I wanted very much to use the Greek language. And of course, through this process, I learned one of the fundamental facts: that countless Greek words have an unknown etymology. That is, they are foreign words very basic words like Olympus, Corinth, Athens, Lycabettus, Ilissus, and so on. They are all foreign words. Linguists assume that they are Pelasgian or from other tribes that lived in Greece, but it is certain that we do not know what they mean. Unknown etymology. We do not know what Olympus means. And the same is true for other languages.
Naturally, French, which is a relatively recent language only about a thousand years old has borrowed elements from a hundred different languages. Latin and Greek dominate, of course, but there are also many Germanic words. That is, one could construct a text in French that is not actually written in French. For example, a Greek text composed only of Italian words. It can be done. Or only with Turkish words. That can also be done. The same is true for French. I have tried this myself I have written short texts in French-German, in French-English, which is obviously very easy, but also in French-Arabic. What I mean is that this nationalism currently sweeping through France—given that they now have a Ministry of National Identity—is a political issue. Isn’t it? No language has the right to boast about itself because all languages are the products of many other languages. At some point, we must understand this and the French must understand it too. It makes no sense to be proud of one’s language.
Let me tell you something not an anecdote, but a historical fact. In the 16th century, France heavily imitated Italy. And it borrowed many Italian words. Some French scholars opposed this because they believed that their language had become degraded just as is happening today with the influence of English. This phenomenon has occurred before. And how did these French scholars try to prove that French was not inferior to Italian? By arguing that French contains more Greek words than Italian does. That was their reasoning for resisting the influence of Italian.
Words are an adventure. I would say that every word is a novel sometimes, a very ancient story, and often, an astonishing one. What else can I tell you? Take, for instance, a word that is very dear to Greeks and to people around the world: nostalgia. We take it for granted as a Greek word. And indeed, the components of the word are Greek. But it was not invented by a Greek. It was coined by a Swiss doctor in the 15th century, who noticed that Swiss mercenaries serving abroad exhibited a particular sadness. He wanted to name this melancholy, which was essentially homesickness. And he created this word, nostalgia, because it was common practice to use Greek words in medicine a practice that continues to this day. Thus, he devised a Greek word of his own to name this feeling of longing. And nostalgia became enormously successful. And it came to us from abroad. That is, it is a Greek word with a Swiss signature. This just goes to show how fascinating the world of words is.
And there is something else I would like to tell you. Many nations have claimed that their language is the oldest in the world—that it was the first language. There is a competition between countries on this matter.
At one time, it was widely believed, almost cynically, that the first language was Hebrew. Even the Catholic Church supported this claim for centuries. Saint Augustine also maintained this belief. Later, there was a shift away from Hebrew, and the focus turned to the Indo-European language although we don’t even know if it ever actually existed. It is a hypothetical language that spans from Persia and India to Europe. All of us who speak Indo-European languages are its descendants, with one major exception. There are other exceptions, of course, but the most striking one is Basque. The Basque language is not Indo-European. It is very likely one of the oldest languages in the world perhaps a language of primitive humans, of hunter-gatherers, dating back to the time of the Neanderthals. It is considered highly probable. And it has no relatives—it belongs to no other linguistic family.
So, there was a period when the dominant theory was that the oldest language was this so-called Indo-European language, which Hitler, of course, exploited. He identified it with the language of the Aryan race and used it as a weapon against the Jews. But similar claims have been made by other nations. For example, the Dutch have argued that the oldest language is Dutch. And what is their first piece of evidence? That in Dutch, a baker is called Bäcker. And in Herodotus, there is an account of an Egyptian king who conducted an experiment: He completely isolated two children, forbidding anyone to speak to them, in order to discover what their first word would be. You see? This issue has been of interest since ancient times. At the time, the Egyptians believed that their language was the oldest. But this king wanted to verify it. He wasn’t satisfied with just believing the rumors. So, he locked the children away, and one day, one of them spoke. This is what Herodotus tells us. And the word the child said was bekos, which means bread but not in Arabic. In Phoenician.
So, the king accepted that the first word was not Egyptian but Phoenician. The Dutch refuse to accept this. They claim that the Phoenicians borrowed the word bekos from Dutch, where it originates from Bäcker, meaning baker. But the Turks have made similar claims. They argue that the first language was Turkish. And they believe that the first word was güneş, which means sun. They call it the language of the sun. They try to prove that this was the first language the language of paradise. What else can I say about this topic? I have bombarded you with information, which is not really my style. That is, I am talking as if I am not myself. But let me return to the novel. For me, the story is if I may put it plainly the death of a brother. We know from the beginning that he has died.
And I also lost my brother, who was a professor in France. However, I always alter reality because I wouldn’t feel free if I created portraits of real people.
With a few rare exceptions. For example, I have included a very brief portrait of the ex-wife of my friend Plato. I hope he remembers this. And he told me, "Take that part out. There’s a risk she’ll read it, and our relationship is already strained. If she sees that, things will get even worse." I must admit, Plato’s unfortunate choices regarding women have been extremely helpful to me. The worse the choice, I would say, the better for me.
P.R.: In the past, a student studying abroad once told me, "I don’t need to ask about your news. I read Alexakis’ books."
V.A.: And I notice that in recent years, I don’t know what’s been happening in his life, what interesting things might be going on.
P.R.: He asks me, "What’s new?" And I tell him, "I’m not going to tell you."
V.A.: I don’t need to know new things. But I imagine them. I imagine various things.
P.R.: It’s dangerous because writers generally draw from reality. And even when they distort it, no matter how much they alter it, some people recognize it.
V.A.: Yes. That’s true.
P.R.: It’s a fact that those of us who are friends can recognize these portraits, but the general public won’t. I assume this happens with most writers.
V.A.: Exactly. But then again, the opposite happens as well. Someone I don’t even know might believe that I’ve taken inspiration from their life story. It’s a kind of paranoia. Vergopoulos once told me, "You’ve written my story." I asked him, "In which book?" I had no idea what he was talking about.
P.R.: He probably liked the idea.
V.A.: Yes, it flattered him. But it happens. And this is another subject in itself. There is no clear boundary between a novel and real life. I don’t see any dividing line.
P.R.: I’d like to ask you something. You mentioned something very interesting earlier. You draw inspiration from events in your own life—let’s say, your mother’s death or some other significant event.
V.A.: Something that presses on me.
P.R.: Something that weighs on you. And you need to create a setting for it, let’s put it that way.
One example is The Delphic Letter. Perhaps an exception was The Language of Africa, where the language itself became the central theme.
V.A.: Yes, but even there, my father’s death was part of it.
P.R.: Your father’s death was present. So, there are events that mark you. And clearly, the deaths of loved ones haunt us they are a major theme. At the same time, you need a backdrop to place your story in. However, for you, this external event becomes the protagonist of the story.
Β.Α.: It’s a matter of balance you’re absolutely right.
P.R.: You don’t let it go. Let’s say you’re going to place a love story—where will you set it? In the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, the 20th century? You, however, always choose a subject that you treat as a protagonist. That is, it’s as if you have two stories that interact: one is the story of the subject, and the other is your own inner story.
V.A.: You describe it very well. Writing is like knitting you need two needles. That’s exactly what you’re describing, and that’s how it is. In this case, one thread is the subject of the first word, and the other is, of course, the story of the characters.
And ultimately, it is mainly about the death of a brother. The book is narrated by a woman—his sister. And again, there is the need to distance myself from reality, because if I wrote about myself, I wouldn’t feel free.
She is not particularly well-educated. She has been to university, but still. In the first part of the book, she narrates the last three days she spent with her brother in Paris. And her brother is present he speaks and interacts. Because death cannot function in a novel unless the character has truly lived first. I used to say the same thing to filmmaker friends: If, at the beginning of a film, the father of the protagonist dies, what does that mean to the audience?
Nothing! If we don’t see him first, if we don’t get to know him, there’s no emotional impact. So, I told them, "At least show the father for 20 minutes so that we care when he dies." For me, then, the entire first part of the novel is a conversation between the sister and her brother, with the deaf girl, the brother’s wife, his daughter, and so on. And through these conversations, questions about words emerge. Now, let’s not go into too many details. At some point in the conversation, the brother casually mentions that he would like to know what the first word was. Before he dies. His sister replies, "But then it would also be the last word." And he says, "Yes, that’s true," and so on. After her brother dies, she feels the need—she feels that she owes him a word. So, the reason she embarks on this search is deeply personal. She wants to find the first word so she can go and tell it to him—perhaps even at his grave. And that’s how the book will end.
Do you understand? The protagonist is not a university researcher conducting a linguistic study. No. She is a sister who has a debt to pay. That’s the difference. Do you see why the novel is necessary? Because without it, what would I be doing? I would just be writing an essay. I wouldn’t be doing anything meaningful. The sister interests me. The brother interests me.
P.R.: I remember when you wrote The Mother’s Notebook, you told me that the grief was so overwhelming that in your writing, you would approach the painful event and then pull away. That is, the description of death seemed so terrifying to you that you would take one step forward and then step back. So, perhaps this background you create in your books helps you avoid confronting the most painful parts head-on while still keeping the tension alive.
V.A.: That’s exactly how it is. And do you know what else happens? There is a dialogue between the story of the characters and the main theme of the book. Because even the silence of the brother after his death is a reference to the silence of humanity before language existed. That is, we never really leave the main subject. The subject of words is always present. But at the same time, it helps drive the narrative forward. And the narrative allows the theme to evolve and reach a conclusion.
It’s also a challenge. Because when I start a book like this, I’m never certain that I’ll be able to resolve the problem I’ve set for myself. I feel anxious until the very last day until I can say, "It’s finished." That is, until I find the first word. Or perhaps until I decide that there is no single first word. Or that there are ten possible first words. Whatever decision I make, the anxiety remains until the end.
P.R.: And it also helps you avoid the risk of writing autobiography.
V.A.: Yes, absolutely. That distance keeps me from becoming too self-referential. That’s why I include characters completely different from myself like the deaf girl, the linguist, the neuroscientist, and so on. These are people I don’t know, and I will approach them in an entirely different way.
I wanted to say something earlier about the boundary between a novel and real life. I don’t see it. Not only because I incorporate elements of reality into my novels but also because the book I’m writing is, of course, a part of my life. And naturally, it also becomes part of the lives of others—it influences real events. It affects those who read it.
Do you understand what I mean? The real question is: Is there a life outside of the novel? To me, real life often resembles a phone book. It’s a boring text. It’s unreadable. Really, how many pages of a phone book could you read? Ten pages? It’s an endless monotony. And afterward, when you publish a book, it’s not just that people recognize real events you’ve described. They also recognize things that have nothing to do with them.
P.R.: Things they want to see.
B.A.: Things they want to see. Many strange things happen. Maybe I’ve told you before there was a book in which I invented a German writer, completely fictional. But I gave him a name, I created his entire persona, I researched modern German literary history, and I made up an author. I even wrote his bibliography. I discussed his supposed novel. None of it was real. His name was Egermann I had a reason for choosing that name. And at the end of my book, I wrote that today he lives in a neighborhood outside Geneva called The Edge of the World. This is a real neighborhood I had seen it. So, I thought, "That’s where I’ll place Egermann, at the edge of the world."
But when my book was presented in Bern, the head of the cultural foundation that invited me told me something incredible. At the train station, she said to me excitedly, "I have some great news! I found Mr. Egermann!" I said, "Where did you find him?" She said, "In the very neighborhood you mentioned in The Edge of the World." Apparently, she had looked in the phone book or done some research, and by sheer coincidence, a man named Egermann actually lived there. And she had invited him. So, I almost found myself in Bern face to face with a character I had invented. In the end, he didn’t come. He probably never understood why he was invited to a talk by a Greek writer discussing a Greek woman named Margarita and so on.
P.R.: That sounds like something from a De Sica film! In Maddalena, Zero for Conduct, a schoolteacher teaches commercial correspondence and invents a fictional name Mr. Wagner, supposedly living in Austria. All her students send him letters as part of their lessons: "Please send us merchandise," and so on. And since the teacher is a lonely woman, she writes a love letter to Mr. Wagner as a joke. And one of her students, for fun, actually mails it. And it turns out, by coincidence, that there is a Mr. Wagner, and he comes to meet her and falls in love with her! It’s a De Sica film.
By the way, something people may not know is that when you were young in France, you worked as a journalist. You wrote reports for Le Monde and other magazines. That journalistic experience has it stayed with you?
V.A.: Yes, I think it has. It has given me a tendency to research. And now that you mention it, I recall an article I once wrote for Lui, the French Playboy of that era it probably doesn’t exist anymore. It was about gestures not sign language, but ordinary gestures we use in everyday communication. And these gestures mean different things in different countries. Just like sign languages vary. A person fluent in French Sign Language may not understand Greek Sign Language. Some signs are universal, but most are not.
And I included something like that in my book. For example, in Greek Sign Language, the sign for meat is made by forming a hook shape like a butcher’s hook. That’s the gesture that means meat. But when I showed it to a deaf girl in France, she thought it meant fish. Because it looks like a fishing hook. So, misunderstandings can happen in sign languages just as they do in spoken languages.
P.R.: Have you noticed how much people in Greece imitate foreign gestures, especially American ones? They now make this American-style gesture for okay—like this. But in Greek culture, that gesture traditionally means nothing. Except maybe in that joke about ordering five beers in a carpentry shop. We Greeks always made the okay gesture like this—with an open palm, almost like a priest’s blessing. Because Greeks are irreverent.
V.A.: Yes, let’s not repeat all the gestures. I remember that in Italy, having large buttocks is considered a sign of great luck. They have a gesture for it.
P.R.: We do, too.
V.A.: This gesture?
P.R.: Kολοφαρδία (ass-luck).
Β.Α. We have the word, but the gesture we use means something else. It suggests something quite different like when we say someone will end up… well, let’s not go there. In football, they make this kind of gesture, for example. Anyway. For no, Greeks shake their heads upwards. The French move their heads side to side. Even the ancient Greeks did this. I read that in ancient Greek culture, people didn’t kiss on the cheeks. They kissed either on the head or on the shoulder but never on the cheek.
P.R.: What about this gesture that the French make when they drink, mimicking a bottle tilting?
V.A.: That means drunk.
P.R.: But in Greek culture, it has no meaning.
V.A.: Or take the gesture for death. In Greece, we make a slashing motion across the throat. In France, they do this a cross motion over the heart, mimicking the sign of the cross on a coffin. And in my novel, when the deaf girl has to announce someone’s death, that’s the gesture she will use. Do you see why I need gestures in my book? I’ve even started learning some of this language myself.
Anyway, I don’t want to keep talking endlessly like Plato here.
Let’s hear from the audience.
Audience Member: How will you write all this in your novel?
V.A.: I’ll describe it. For a writer, it is incredibly satisfying to describe something precisely. It’s very simple.
P.R.: And if you're missing a finger, you say, "he lisps."
V.A.: Imagine losing a hand.
P.R.: What concerns me is that a writer is a writer twenty-four hours a day. That is, it becomes an obsession, and whatever happens to you while you are writing, you incorporate it into your work, into your novel.
V.A.: Look, as often as a stockbroker thinks about the stock market, I think about my book. That is, very often, very often. Not all the time, of course.
And sometimes, whether I'm taking a bath or solving a Sudoku puzzle, I try to find a way to escape the thoughts of the book, to distract myself. I really need that. I sleep often I sleep three times a day. I wake up very early, I sleep at nine, I sleep at noon, and I might even sleep at seven in the evening.
I need to because the book pressures me a lot. I mean, a lot. When I reach the end, I'm ready to burst into tears, to have a nervous breakdown. It is an extremely difficult moment. For instance, now I’m in the middle of the book, and I don’t know which characters will appear in the second part. All the characters from the first part will reappear, except for the brother, of course, but which new characters will appear that's something I still have to decide.
P.R.: One thing that always amazes me is that he writes with a pencil. So, a change in the book is a tragedy if it requires many modifications in the following chapters. That is, if he suddenly realizes he made a mistake in the progression of relationships.
V.A.: Yes, that happens. In a scene just now, for example, I made a mistake. I introduced a character it’s a bit like in real life, you know. Let’s say I have a family, they’re celebrating Christmas, and there's the daughter's boyfriend, who is an unlikable and older actor, and so on, who is famous. But now we are moving into a different idea he is an actor whose voice is famous because he does dubbing. He is not known as an actor, but his voice is recognizable. So, this is something I can use.
Because he is just a voice, only a voice, and not an actor. In any case, I had introduced him into the house earlier than I should have. And that ruined the conversation. Because his presence prevented certain topics from being discussed. It inevitably imposed a change, and that change came too soon. And while I was developing the text with him present and finding little things to say about his presence and so on, I also felt a certain discomfort that this wasn’t working well so I took him out.
I reintroduced him two pages later. Now it’s fine, and this also solved a problem for me. He arrived at the right moment. Do you understand? The champagne bottle would have been finished if I had brought him in early. Do you understand? He entered at the right moment. How can I explain it—it’s like the building superintendent knocking on your door for the utility bill while you’re in the shower. It just doesn’t work. So, I removed him.
That’s how it works, more or less. Absolutely. Because I completely believe in what I write, I absolutely believe in it I live it. I don’t see the characters as faces but as shadows, yet they are there nonetheless, these shadows. It’s as if I’m writing a story that I have lived and am trying to remember. That’s about the distance I have from my characters.
P.R.: Just like Yourcenar described when she finished The Abyss and Zeno, she went out into the garden of her house and called out his name. She had lived with him for many years. Zeno was a part of her life, just as Hadrian was before him, and ultimately, it seems she lived with her characters.
V.A.: So, any questions, guys? Let’s have a conversation.
Audience: How much do you know about the ending of a story when you start writing it?
V.A.: Not at all. But I already told you earlier I don’t know what the first word will be, what the sister will say, and so on. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Do you understand? I have to write the book as if I am discovering it while writing it. The element of surprise is always present. I wouldn’t enjoy the book if nothing happened along the way that defied expectations. I must always find something. Or a different way of expressing something. I don’t know what that might be, but there has to be some discovery. And, of course, the biggest discovery is the ending. But I wait to find it when the moment arrives. Like a reader of the book, you see? Like a reader who reads slowly because the book is not yet written. Very slowly.
P.R.: That’s what Picasso said about painting that painters are collectors of their own paintings. Just as writers are readers of their own books.
Audience: When you write a book, do you ever argue with yourself about the plot but then later reconcile with yourself? Is that what you mean?
V.A.: Your question is whether I go through various conflicts, disagreements with myself, and then later reconciliations? Yes. But what exactly is your question? Can you repeat it?
Audience: While writing the plot, you might think, "I introduced this character too early when I should have brought him in later," and at that moment, it's like an internal argument. But later, if he enters at the right moment, you feel, "Oh, how wonderful!" a sense of reconciliation.
V.A.: Yes. It solves a problem for me. Yes, of course. I am not so sure of myself that I believe whatever I write is correct absolutely not. In any case, let me tell you, I do not believe in masterpieces. All works have human imperfections. So, I find it completely reasonable that I might make a colossal mistake and have to correct it later. I don’t feel secure. I am not better than the books I write. The books I write are better than me. Do you understand? They are the best moments of myself, put together. That’s how it is. But the anxiety remains.
Yes, I feel a greater sense of confidence now, which allows me to tackle more difficult subjects. But precisely because they are difficult, they reduce the confidence I have gained.
In other words, I try to maintain my doubts about whether or not I can complete a book. If I wrote an easy book today yes, I know I could do that but perhaps that is why I make my work more difficult, precisely so that I stay within a certain level of challenge. I keep asking myself: Will I be able to do this?
There is perhaps an element of challenge let's just call it that. I enjoy that the book is difficult. In fact, I once said that it is easier to write a difficult book because the challenge makes you more combative. Writing an easy book, which you might get bored with and possibly not even finish, is harder.
Balance is not a good thing. I don’t like the word "balance." Yes, but a balance that leans to both sides. We’re talking about the balance of a boat at sea or a seesaw, you see? Not a straight alignment, not an evening-out. Just words.
Audience: Do you ever feel the need to invent a word when no existing word comes to mind? To create a word of your own?
V.A.: You mean like the Swiss person who came up with the word nostalgia? No, I have never felt that need. Words exist.
There are writers who change all the words. Paris Takopoulos wrote a novel called The Empty Testament with an Epsilon instead of Eta. All the words in it are his own inventions. He calls a woman gymnaika (a mix of “woman” and “gymnast”), he turns "I call" (tilefono) into tilefonevo. I mention him in my book because I find what he does amusing.
Okay, it’s a game, but you can’t write a novel like that. No, I never felt a lack of words. Besides, both Greek and French are incredibly rich languages. I don’t know what can I tell you? Perhaps that kind of work belongs more to poetry.
Maybe in Africa, for instance, in a Central African country where I traveled, they have a language that hasn't evolved much yet it didn't have time. It was an Arabic colony, and even today, they teach in French. There, they have a problem. They are forced to invent words because they can’t express certain modern concepts. For example, they didn't even have the word colony. When the French left and they gained independence, the local radio station had to announce the end of colonial rule but they didn’t have a word for it.
And a journalist told me he spent the entire night sleepless because he had to broadcast the morning news and use that word. It was necessary. And he found it he created a new word using two existing ones. One was kontoro, which means country, and the other was ba, which means servant. Country-servant. Isn’t that incredible? And that’s how the word for colony was coined. Today, in that language, colony is called kontoroba.
P.R.: After your novel, I saw an African film from Senegal by Ousmane, and I noticed that the upper class there forces children to learn French.
V.A.: Of course.
P.R.: So the child says something in an African language and the mother reprimands her, “speak French.”
V.A.: But if I dream of my mother, of Platon, of friends. It depends on the person, of course. My French publisher cannot speak Greek in my dreams, a language he is completely ignorant of. Dreams are like life.
Audience: Do you do the translations for better rendition?
V.A.: Of course. Because I am not recognizable beneath the surface. If someone else were to translate my text—meaning I have an audience both in Greece and in France—they know my books because they are written in a certain way. And I like to believe that precisely for that reason they are interested in the books. If a translator did the work, they would be written somewhat differently. So I have to do it myself.
P.R.: Understood? To preserve the style. No matter how good the translation is, the style will be lost. The style I have in a language in which I write like this. I am neither interested in nor do I want to write in the other languages. When you write in one language or the other, does your mind gradually start to think in that language? In other words, do you find it easy to switch from one to the other?
V.A.: No, I have no ease at all. I am absolutely attached to one language and I prefer to be in the country whose language I use, because I like, when I write in Greek, to hear Greek on television. You know, there are stimuli—things that can prove useful in my book. So it’s good to be in the country of the language. Besides, among those I saw for the new book is Jean-Pierre Changeux, who is world-famous as a brain researcher. Perhaps this gentleman will be the next French Nobel, given his age and so on. I managed to see him and he told me the following amazing thing: he said, of course we learn our mother tongue with the left part of the brain, the so-called Broca’s area, but when we learn a foreign language, it’s not the same area that functions—it’s another. And partly it is the right hemisphere that functions in learning a foreign language.
V.A.: And he tells me, it’s possible for someone to have an accident and completely forget the foreign language and remember only their mother tongue. Perhaps this explains why I don’t think in French at all when I write in Greek. Only when I finish does it seem that a switch occurs and I decide that from now on I will focus on French. I don’t know if this has to do with the brain.
Audience: May I ask something more general since we’re talking about words—have you ever felt that words become greatly distorted, lose their meaning, as you experience them, and if so, how do you handle that?
V.A.: Can you give me an example?
Audience: So, the way you handle language, you use it to communicate, but it becomes severely distorted. When I say “essence,” I mean the feeling.
P.R.: Do you mean that he’s afraid the word doesn’t convey what he wants?
Audience: It’s not about fearing it; it’s about whether it actually happens to you. You don’t fear it; it happens to you?
V.A.: I don’t see that as a problem concerning a single word, no. Sometimes I’m surprised by comments some readers make about a book. I think that this reader has read the book—they’ve read a slightly different book than the one I believe I wrote. That happens, yes. So perhaps it’s inevitable that each reader sees it a little differently?
But as for words, what you’re saying, I think it’s more likely to happen with what I’d call difficult, rare words rather than with very simple ones.
I like simple words. Sometimes by reducing the intensity of speech you gain more power than by overloading words. Understand? That is, the word “good” for a person is preferable for me to a more complex word.
I’m not sure if I’m answering your question, but are you referring to those “sophisticated” words?
Audience: I’m talking about the conflict between words and the feeling behind them.
V.A.: I believe in words more. To me, that cliché we use—that words have worn out and no longer convey that immense emotion—sounds like a myth. It’s mostly said by people in love.
It’s the familiar “how much I love you.” But how much, my dear child? Tone it down a bit. Those words slip into a kind of chatter. No. Words say exactly what they mean. Besides, I prefer the word “like” to “love.” As I said earlier, I have a tendency to diminish things.
That, after all, reminds me of my mother. She once said to me about a classmate, “I think she likes you.” I liked the word “likes” and I’ve kept it. I find it very good.
Telling a woman “I find you likable.” I find it charming; don’t you agree?
Audience: When starting to write a book and searching for a word, the protagonist ends up finding that word—the first word—that essentially expresses the essence of your book; that is, if she concludes that the first word was “spoon,” something completely unrelated to the rest of the book, might you risk finding a word that is unrelated to the essence of the book?
V.A.: No, look. You’re both right and wrong. The book doesn’t depend on that word. No, that word is “Ithaca.” That word has led to an entire novel. Whatever it is, it’s an exceptional word—even if it’s “spoon.” For her to go, after an entire novel—a journey to her brother’s grave—and tell him, even just to make him laugh, that the first word was “spoon.” I find that incredible.
I had taken a friend—who was on vacation—and I asked him: completely arbitrarily, which word do you think was the first humans ever uttered?
He thought about it, thought about it, and you know what he said? “Long live Hellas!” That we started from nothing, from the trees as soon as we came down, and someone said “Long live Hellas”? It’s a masterpiece. It’s like the “spoon” you mentioned. “Long live Hellas,” of course.
No. She’s a girl who works in a household and will perform in the dance scene of Antigone’s tragedy. See? Everything connects—both Greece and the deaf-mute. We write it only in Greek. I’ll write it later, when I finish, yes.
But I use this contrast. There’s a misunderstanding precisely because I describe that in French Sign Language one sign is used and in Greek Sign Language another. That’s a positive element for the book. I use it. I have no problem translating the girl’s sign language—in the Greek edition the French deaf woman will sign in Greek Sign Language. Got it? I’m not going to translate that. I don’t know how far the role will extend. I’ll see. That’s an element I’m not sure about. I don’t know what this girl will do in the second part. Will she leave the house now that her brother has died, for instance? I have no idea. I don’t make all the decisions by myself. Once the book has progressed and the characters have matured somewhat, they can help you make the right decisions for them.
It’s like children telling you what they want to study. Parents don’t decide everything. Understand? She can take the initiative.
No, this girl doesn’t have an interpreter in the house. First, because she communicates in writing with the man, who has learned it. But mainly his wife has learned enough sign language so they can understand each other on three or four very basic things. She doesn’t need an interpreter in the house. No.
Audience: If you hadn’t promised your publishers that every two years or so you’d deliver a book, could you live without writing?
No, I would be very unhappy. Very unhappy. I mean, sometimes I get exasperated because I push myself so hard, I work far too many hours.
And I say, “how nice it would be if I didn’t have this.” And the moment I say that, I say no, it’s wrong. I would be much worse off. I think I would do the same thing.
P.R.: Fortunately, this work has come to sustain you. But at the start, when you were working concurrently as a journalist, writing your first novels while doing another job—was that aspect completely separate for you, the writing?
V.A.: Yes, separate. I worked weekends, I worked nights, I stayed up all night to do it, because what interested me was the novel. I had a very exhausting life, a very tiring period, because journalism has many demands and so does the novel, naturally.
At some point, when I turned forty, I made various decisions: one was to get divorced, and the other was to quit journalism—to try to live off this work. It was a gamble.
But I had to do it. I didn’t want the years to pass and one day say, “ahh, what wonderful books I could have written if I had decided differently.” And I said at some point that one makes these decisions just as you decided to leave the legal profession. It’s the same thing.
P.R.: In your first book you wrote that you became a writer to please girls.
V.A.: It’s possible. I’ve forgotten it, and please you forget it too. Let’s all forget that.
Audience: Is the plot of the story inspiration or experience?
V.A.: Let me tell you, the word “inspiration” I don’t know exactly what it means. That when you push yourself hard and shut yourself in, some ideas come? Is that inspiration? Inspiration reminds me of a light descending from the ceiling like in Catholic iconography. It descends obliquely from the ceiling and falls into the hands of the saint and so on. I don’t see myself that way. It’s a profession. What was the second part of the question?
Audience: Is it experience? Characters shape a persona within the book, right? And you don’t know how the plot will ultimately form, and through this experience of the characters, an experience is inevitably created within yourself through these specific characters. And will this continuation of the story ultimately be an aphorism of the characters’ experience or of your personal inspiration?
V.A.: I think you’ve forgotten one word, the most important one. It’s a work of imagination. Experience, life, all those things are secondary. It’s a work of imagination. Without imagination there is no book. Nothing works. Do you understand? Don’t confuse things; don’t think that because I lost my brother and put a brother in the novel, there isn’t a novel.
If reality, the experience you mention, played the role you suppose, I wouldn’t write novels; I would make phone calls to my friends. It’s something completely different. There isn’t a single line of a novel if there is no imagination. That’s fundamental.
Audience: Inspiration.
V.A.: You can call it inspiration. Imagination. There isn’t a single line, nor a single novel, however autobiographical it may be, that is written without imagination. It can’t happen. There’s no point.
P.R.: Do you know what the problem with the word “inspiration” is?
V.A.: It has a religious connotation.
P.R.: The word “inspiration” presupposes an external source, whereas imagination is the dream, the inner source. So when you say “I have imagination,” you mean it comes from within you. Inspiration is like waiting for it to come, not necessarily in a religious sense, but like someone from the penthouse will throw you an inspiration. In Greek, when you say “inspiration,” you feel it comes from somewhere. Whereas imagination is something that comes from within you. If you want to call it that either way, fine, that’s a matter of definition.
V.A.: That’s why the word “inspiration” saddens me. Look, I believe there is a relationship between the length of sentences and breathing rhythm; that is, I believed—no, excuse me, I used to believe—that people who have breathing difficulties make short sentences so that they can read them. A huge mistake. The longest sentences were written by the author with the worst asthma. Proust.
Proust had breathing problems, and yet his sentences were a page long each.
So I too have become confused. I can’t tell you. I believe I write sentences that allow me to breathe, that I put a period when I need to take a breath.
Audience: Did you use a child?
V.A.: A child? I can’t hear you well.
Audience: What was your own first word?
V.A.: Are you talking about a baby? Well, these are words that children learn.
P.R.: They tell the baby the word “mama” 600 times before it’s even born. What else can it do? The tragic thing is the child of someone I know used to call both “mama” and “papa” “mama.” His father had accepted it.
Audience: I wanted to ask the following. As a rule, do you start a work without knowing its ending, or is what you’re doing now an exception?
V.A.: No, that’s always how it happens.
Audience: You like the suspense, the journey, Ithaca, that is?
V.A.: Yes, what we were saying before. I’m somewhat a reader of my own book, and I want to keep my own interest alive until the end.
Audience: And a second question. Are there heroes who reappear in your works in the sense of an obsession? From book to book are there obsessions in another form that return in your works?
V.A.: Look, it’s a bit difficult for me to judge that. Françoise Sagan wrote a novel in which she deliberately uses characters from her other books who meet and so on. She has written such a novel with well-known characters from her previous works.
I haven’t done that myself, of course. However, there are names that I use many times.
Audience: In the sense of obsession?
V.A.: No. Look, there is a character in a novel called “Identity Check” that I have to translate myself. A translator has translated it, and I don’t like the text and it’s not well-known. He is an elderly man who has no home, homeless, and lives in a railway station. And he has nowhere to eat and roams the streets and wealthy neighborhoods looking for apartments where a celebration or party is taking place. And he goes and sneaks in. He rings the doorbell, goes inside, and eats until they notice him. No one knows him. There are encounters like those organized by the French Institute or the Benaki Museum. He goes and nibbles. There are such people. We know them. I even have their phone numbers to notify me.
Such a character I might want to reuse at some point. I was very fond of that gentleman who goes to a party and, of course, gets caught and says various things. He is perhaps the only novel character I would like to reuse. To return.
Look, this does not depend on the language, it depends on the subject of the work. I have told you when it is Greek I write it in Greek because I feel absolutely comfortable in the language, but I feel equally well if the work is French and I write it in French. It is the language in relation to the subject.
Now it’s a bit as if you’re asking me which language I prefer or which language I know better. I don’t feel comfortable in any language. It is a huge problem; it is an ongoing struggle with language.
And with both languages it is equally difficult. The idea of being at ease within the language is not at all at ease. Not at all. I keep looking at the dictionary, searching, and so on and so forth.
You understand? Moreover, the concept of comfort is not productive. I wouldn’t do anything if I felt comfortable somewhere, for some mysterious reason.
We have experienced certain people, siblings, relatives, aunts, etc., but we have also lived through novel heroes. For me, I remember when I was young, Cyrano de Bergerac was almost a real person. The Count of Monte Cristo—I cried for the Count of Monte Cristo. Before I cried for any living person, I had cried for Cyrano and for the Count of Monte Cristo.
I remember the little girl in a fairy tale by the Comtesse de Ségur, Rosalie, who was very curious and each time opened the box she shouldn’t open and the tower would fall.
“Girl, leave the box alone. Again the same thing. Terrible nightmares.” I mean, we have lived through those. We return a bit to the matter of the novel’s different life line. But we have lived inside those. What would we be without them?
On one hand we have the family photo album, and on the other we have paintings, photo albums, etc. Other things that count for so much.
Audience: Within a novel, if it is genuine, you manage to see the absolute truth. Whereas nowadays with the reports that are made you don’t learn only the truth.
V.A.: Yes. And they don’t function in the same way. The language of the novel carries a completely different weight, when one handles it correctly, of course; it’s something else. You read it in a different way.
P.R.: It’s a fact that as you grow older you read less.
V.A.: Look, I read more unrelated books. Or books related to what I’m going to do now.
P.R.: It’s one thing to read books that concern what you do. Reading novels coincides for most people with their youth. Perhaps because they have more need for that world. Most people, you, I don’t know, but it happens to me, and it’s not a matter of time—the novel is more for our youthful years, and as the years pass your readings relate to your concerns. Which may be the research you do, someone involved in history, politics, philosophy, but escaping into a world of a novel is something that characterizes our youthful years.
V.A.: But that doesn’t hold true for women. Women mainly write novels while men read more, let’s say, more useful works. Historical novels. They are certain that at least there they will receive something. Whereas the novel itself seems perhaps like a break, like an escape, and so on.
P.R.: Let me ask you a provocative question that I had asked a writer—Nana insulted me a lot, but I did it out of honesty. It was in Syros, someone was presenting his book, likable, and I said, because I’m anxious that I don’t read, obviously I’ve read all my friend Vassilis’s books, but if he wasn’t my friend I might not have read them.
And I feel that I have very little time left in my life ahead, I feel anxiety and there are tremendous works that I haven’t read. From Virgil I don’t know where up to. Tremendous works that I haven’t read and if I had time to devote I would like to read Don Quixote at an advanced age, which I know, or things like that.
Why is it provocative to say that to a writer—why should I go buy a Takopoulos or an Alexakis and not go buy a Cervantes I haven’t read? If my time is limited.
They answered me, that the contemporary Greek writer will talk about things that concern you more.
I believe that great writers always talk about things that concern us. Or Mark Twain, whom I forgot earlier.
V.A.: Look, I read less than before, but it hasn’t been many years since I read Don Quixote. It hasn’t been many years and other works as well. Of course, I will definitely tell you to read Don Quixote. The alpha and omega of the novel. Everything is there. It’s enormous, but I warn you that it’s very lengthy.
I have the impression that very few people have read Don Quixote. Because it struck me that no one knew, and when I say it everyone is speechless, I say you’ve read only the first volume, not the second. Because in the second volume something amazing happens.
Which shows how much humor Cervantes had discovered everything. I’ll tell you why. Because in the second volume Don Quixote takes to the roads again with Sancho Panza, decides on another round and when they are going someone informs him—the second volume was published a few years after the first—
Someone informs them that a volume with their adventures has been published. And they ask, who wrote it? How could he know what happened to us since no one was with us? And they are told, we think, rumors now, that he is an Arab. And Don Quixote says, but they always tell lies.
So you understand how Cervantes has turned the entire first part upside down and suddenly the heroes find themselves victims of the novel in which they play.
It’s incredible. The entire second part begins like that. And he wants to find out who he is. And he says to a young student, you must find me that book, because it concerns me. Do you understand how incredible a book it is?
Alright. If you have the stamina. Of course, it’s a bit verbose. Because Cervantes includes entire stories, fairy tales, and other digressions.
That is, he inserts elements unrelated to the main story, he doesn’t just advance the plot, because he uses popular material from culture—Spanish culture, in any case.
Alright, it’s a bit more difficult but worth the effort. Or at least start from the second volume.
P.R.: I bought those two volumes myself and I feel guilty for not reading them.
V.A.: You’ll have a wonderful time. Now, what Raptopoulos said about the contemporary novel does make some sense. The modern writer talks about things of the times. That’s somewhat obvious.
But Raptopoulos is wrong. It is not the subject that makes a novel interesting. The subject is not whether it refers to the Athens metro or the Olympics, to life and other current events. No. It’s the writing that is interesting. The theme of the book is its writing.
That is the reality. So Homer, Stendhal are timeless. And some Mr. So-and-so, Ms. So-and-so writing nonsense today is completely irrelevant. They are out of touch with reality. So it’s a matter of the writing, not the topic.
A book is not good because it refers to the Napoleonic Wars and bad because it refers to a little old lady living in a neighborhood where nothing happens in her life. Isn’t that so?
‘The Third Wreath’ is a great book. No, not for me. That’s just what was missing, are you kidding? We’re talking about something completely unknown. And even if someone wanted, publishers never know whether a book will sell or not.
When they are certain it will sell, it sells nothing. But knowing when it will sell is a mystery and makes no sense. Besides, the only way to respect the audience is to not take it into account. There is no other way to communicate with the audience. That’s it. In other words, as long as I respect myself, I try to make a book that honestly is what, say, I would like to read. Only then do I communicate with my audience. I don’t know any other way.
What am I supposed to imagine? How would I know what others want? No one knows.
Look, I said I have two years ahead of me. There’s some limit. Look, I think it’s good to have deadlines, especially in this job, so things get done. Otherwise it’s very easy for them not to happen. A lot of people write, but I should remind you that a lot of people don’t write either.
That is, it’s easy not to write a book. It’s very easy to get carried away and leave it for hours.
No, the novel is hard labor. You have to get up, like Hugo did when he wrote ‘Les Misérables’. Four-thirty in the morning. That’s the right time, when the birds wake up. That is a very good time. I would say excellent.
Yes, look, I may ask for a fifteen-day extension because something has gotten stuck. That pressure helps me; it helps to have a deadline. Understand? Because I know this deadline from day one. Understand? So I start saving time and set a pace so that the book gets done. And that pace is beneficial. It’s useful. Without pace, it can’t happen.
P.R.: Do you write in absolute solitude and silence, or can you write with noise, with people around?
V.A.: I have never written in a café; I don’t like it. I find it a bit theatrical to open your papers in a café. No, home—I lock myself in, I turn off the phone. That’s it. I can’t write with another person in the house. Even if I lived in a large apartment and someone was opening and closing doors at the end of the hallway, I couldn’t.
When I was married, I would get very irritated; I would argue with the children, with my wife. And one of the reasons I divorced was that. Because I was unbearable. I mean, I expected them somehow on Sunday to go for a walk in the woods or somewhere else so I could have five hours of peace.
Audience: Do you write the date when you finished it at the end of your books?
V.A.: Yes, the day I finished.
Audience: Do you write when you started writing something?
V.A.: I note that in the manuscript; I don’t put it in the books. It makes no sense to put a starting date beforehand. Understand? As if I were a runner and had to record a time.
Audience: Like a journal.
V.A.: I know. In my manuscript, the book has the date on the first page.
P.R.: There are some people, like Bergman, who wrote his scripts on a specific type of paper. Bergman sought out a factory that was closing and took the last 800 pads so he could continue writing on the same paper. Do you have any such mania with pencils, with erasers?
V.A.: Yes, yes, I have a mania for certain pencils—not too soft, not too hard, HB—and with typewriter paper. I’ve always worked this way: I write exclusively on one side, of course. And I like that 500-sheet pack. That’s it. They’ve changed it a bit now because they also use the same paper for photocopying. It’s not exactly the same as it used to be. Just the plain paper. They’ve changed something. But in any case, I like to have that brick by my side.
P.R.: Without lines.
V.A.: Without lines. And I write in microscopic letters so that as much text as possible fits on the same page in front of me. To have many scenes, many dialogues, to have the maximum of text before me.
P.R.: And then do you transfer those to the typewriter?
V.A.: When a chapter is finished and I consider it correct, I type it on the machine. I make many changes again. But when the typing is done and the corrections in the typing, then it’s almost ready.
P.R.: But we’re talking typewriter, typewriter.
V.A.: Typewriter, typewriter.
P.R.: With ribbon.
V.A.: Yes, with ribbon like in detective movies.
P.R.: You haven’t considered moving to a computer.
V.A.: Like in ‘The Maltese Falcon’. Exactly so.
P.R.: You haven’t considered moving to computers.
V.A.: No, because it’s work that must be done slowly. It is, how can I tell you, craftsmanship.
I know I would do it faster if I wrote on a computer and that’s why I don’t write on a computer. They have told me, you’d save time, but I don’t want to save time. In this field you must lose time, not save it. Otherwise this can’t happen. If I were doing translations, if I were doing only that or something else, I would work that way.
Audience: If we think that in whatever you want to do you do not care what will please the audience. You focus on what will please you. Could we say that you are honest and therefore honest with your novel?
V.A.: Yes.
P.R.: That’s why I say it’s fortunate that he makes a living from this work.
V.A.: Look, when I finish the book, it’s published, it’s released, of course I’d like and I’m happy when it succeeds. But I haven’t done anything for that. Understand? And it’s a surprise. Besides, the last book was a huge success.
P.R.: That surprised me too. In Greece, a book on such a topic against Mount Athos selling as much as no other has sold.
V.A.: With the Presocratics and so on, difficult. It reached sixty thousand copies in one year. For Greece and for a book that is not a popular novel. A different kind of book.
Audience: What do you think about the creative writing courses that started in America? I mean, when we talk about imagination, is it possible for someone to go and learn creative writing?
V.A.: No, they can learn to avoid certain mistakes. Or they can do exercises that will teach them to use their imagination more. Understand? You can learn some things. I myself have taken two workshops once.
P.R.: Vassilis had opened the telephone directory in a workshop.
V.A.: Yes, I gave them a page.
P.R.: Grab a page—for example, “Vakalopoulos,” what profession does it say beside, “dentist,” and the address, “Pangrati.” And create stories about these people.
V.A.: With one page. I had given the same telephone directory page to all the students. On a telephone directory page you have some professions: you have a real estate agent, an ophthalmologist, someone who owns two houses.
And now you say, this person—say, the dentist—and you think, does his wife know what happens at the other address, given that it is next to a certain lady, a hairdresser?
You find the hairdresser, too. So you create a story. The dentist, the hairdresser get lost. The garage—you also have a garage. So of course there is a short story on each telephone directory page. Of course.
Audience: What I meant is, can someone become a writer by just taking this course?
V.A.: Not a writer, no.
P.R.: Because those who take photography classes become photographers?
V.A.: But you can learn certain things. That you should not start a book with one of your personal problems. That that is a mistake. A tragic mistake. That the book is not psychoanalysis, that it is not a phone call, that you have to invent—imagination, I call it—a story. You have to invent something. From there on, the personal stuff will come out, a thousand things will come out. Not only your own personal stuff, but other people’s and so on.
But you have to invent, my child. There’s no other way.
If I hadn’t found the first word, I couldn’t have made this book. Nor could I speak about this matter.
Audience: Is writing a release for you?
V.A.: What is?
Audience: Release.
V.A.: No, the opposite. It’s tremendous anxiety. Release? Quite the opposite. Are you joking?
But what do you imagine? That there’s a hole in my ceiling? How have you seen it that way? The sun doesn’t enter like that anywhere. I am a kind of public servant.
I alone am a ministry. It’s a confusion. What release?
Audience: Do you react to today’s times or empathize?
V.A.: That is not a question I can answer. Empathize with what? Whom should I empathize with? Pavlidis, the one who is always apologizing?
Audience: That’s why I said as a release.
V.A.: Don’t transfer the novel into the real world. The novel is another world. Do you understand? It’s another world. That’s it. One that I live in, so don’t tell me now.
Audience: Through the novel you can say great truths. That’s what I mean.
V.A.: Absolutely. We fully agree.