Hellenic Quarterly Paes ater ae Teer keri ele MC) No 4 © SPRING * MARCH, APRIL MAY 2000 Greece is a Continuous Process. A Dialogue Between Edmund Keeley and George Seferis Louka Katseli: The Role of Employment, eum sere ens Ker ne l(c) Myrsini Zorba, What is the Need fot @ Cultural Policy? Eva Kotamanidou: Creating a Role | Andreas Mitsou: The imprint i Alexis Ziras: Nikos Bakolas, Chronicler of the Macedonian Hinterland Mormon oa NM TMs‘Tp Filenc Quartenty sera ara Wahoans ENIOE. eee a6 mycin ry Are My-Keghomiema Era lt a Eiadoa cence EaaaaHeleiene = sbornjnne all FAbaba woe rg Euddag-lllnicaw « Hobs Semen A. Gooosas Ave Hu we ene He oY Pang Nd. Pasha Keoaay Gey» 3 “ig eed Tigyne Puowas + Zivvernay Emtooeh: ALFEne Zakog Uva lAermcrne-Ahzendoo essen ‘Tw: Moweholes, Kevereveto: Pps, Fuerte Kenoontis tunes Mzenimonhis, Kenoraying Pye, Ee +e Koken = Ytet6i Arponoy Beccru: Mawta Henle «Ha yer Farin: De Facto ‘IELLENTC QUARTERLY is published by ENTOS Fubteations uncer an spreement with tne cel ron-praie com. pay Gress ouside GreseeHeenica” + Owner. “Greets ose Greece lena” deo TaemisadesL. Faso ‘ensir anc responsible actuidiy t9 Grek Lav: Roula Kaklamanak »Assochje manager: Yann's Got »F ‘sia Dard: Alexis Ze, Sala TUuskaya-Alecandropouoa, Yorues Keuroupes, Yorgos Markopouies, Kenstaniant ‘igos, Hens Houzour «Public Xelaiions: Malla Polliou «Typeset and avout De FactoUnk BNTOS Egcelag el 31 Kalsapur bea BOdBu. (WE 1) SON ie (0) TAB. ewer de | ‘kn onal eine gre Azania siggy fees 20) Fates NTO Melis Dune yo mee rao | “Dus launictieeew neous + Nereis mun GONE Oo LARA AlzoOHE! me IEE Moon ‘aso obs excipayy i mgs gunaar ana) pryrtoxinnecrcosoorane ho wpe MODE DIM «ENON ‘BSNL MOK Tuegee ey 22be, Nese [BNTOSPublenons Eons sec Karan 16,2, there, Cresa «Pa (030-1) 76.9999: Par (CAD 1) 764800 = ate a ret ge ema enrcaietisog = Cones Cop © 000 TDS Publis | HELLENTC QUARTERLY 6 he hers «Al its serve «No parr es pubiaton may be reproaued oped naeren| semen, photKony ree sng: otic, wet ies prs of Gr ube» on SN HOS + ued Crees May 200.Creating a Role ...... “Scarred GREEK MOTIF Greece isa Continuous Process A Dialogue Between Edmund Keeley and George Sefer, SOCIETY AND ECONOMICS ‘Toe Rote of Employment, Poverty Eradication and Gender Equality... cece 8 NON-FICTION Non-Greek Periodicals about Greece . az ‘What is the Need for a Cultural Policy? 16 In Search of a New Republic: From Plato to DH, Lawrence. .19 “Museum Education... 2 DRAMA, ‘Uncompromising Greek Women: A Study of Medea and Lysistrata. Greek Dramaturgy After 1974 FICTION From Days, V ‘The Imprint... ‘How a Curse is BrokenChristoforos Liontakis Alexis Ziras Alexis Ziras ‘Yannis Goumas ‘Yorgos Markopoulos Dimitris Yeros |The Meal’s Trimmings. Country House .. In Memoriam “The Other One “The Alchemist .. _ "The Feeble Lies of Orestes Halkiopoulos” . . "Nikos Bakolas: Chronicier of the Macedonian Hinterland in the Poetry of Yorgos Chronas . POETRY Frantic Angels. ‘Too Young and Too Shy Jt Will Return Dinner Parties Ode to Marilyn Monroe Portrait... 0... ‘The Wayfarer’s Findings . Blanket BOOKS AND AUTHORS ‘The Notion of Transgression ia Andreas Mitsou's ‘The Personal Pronouns of Loneliness "INTERVIEWS AND PERSONALITIES Interview with Dimitris Yeros ‘Yeros on Yeros : Critical Appraisals .... . . _-Extracts from the Album “D. Yeros", 1997... CONTRIBUTORS . .CHRISTOFOROS LIONTAKIS translated by Yannis Goumas FRANTIC ANGELS Everything comes to a halt— green or red the traffic lights, it's immaterial, Muddled sounds, yellow hazard lights Sofi-spoken voices lacking polish. Confident hands drive consumption to an abyss. ‘The touch fills with smells and scratches (from a car alongside a pleasant voice mentions gloves). ‘The cylinder grinds qualms and visions once precious papers, loved clothing withered flowers. And yet no one is about to pay any attention to their obsequies. Gestures and honking, for time is money. ‘And the frantic angels with inarticulate cries and “okeydoke” and clipped words carry on. Well-trained in oscillations they manage to avoid the litterbags. On the easseite a mournful cantata is sawing away at the unspent Ang the tipping buckets are emptied and the automatic doors open and shut mashing, among other things, self-secking appointments. ‘The noise becomes one with Johann Sebastian’s outpour. Tgnoring the stock market they just dream of soap and water. Until your hear: “Drive on, mate!” and time again takes its course.-ATHINA PAPADAKI translated by Yannis Goumas ‘THE MEAL’S TRIMMINGS But what is hunger? Neat te "The bloodhounds with royal black-and-white approaching by leaps and bounds “from chasms of dust - suddenly stain with fear's shiver the motionless prey. Sie ‘The blood disappears in spices and steam, in the resplendent dining room ‘with porcelain posture, ‘knife and f ONES woo ate Wiched apart 2 "Invisible taste served on visible lace, OE “with flowers, wine and fowl, “ Matter seized by matter - Teo -— to the skeleton's tips, the voracious grows impatient and renders ou ife mort ‘COUNTRY HOUSE ‘With basil planes and pulses TH ive, — folding my arms in cohesion Task that my circle close courteously. The trees’ roof lower Eup ‘and the threshold an inch or so above the silver driftwood on the strand. At the turn of the skies around twilight — _you forfeit authority ‘but gain chicory, running water. go for an airing on the balcony, ‘Between door and horizon intervenes God.YORGOS CHRONAS ‘ODE TO MARILYN MONROE. Paint on my Dody all dhe craters Cf the earths volcanoes, the smallpox of New Yori'slongshoremen. Paint on my body the new emperor's ceunuchs, the cry of Ibicus’ cranes. Paint on my body my mother Ethel ‘wasnt she called Ethel? ~ my lat lover ied on a motoreysie in Chicago. Paint on my Dody the communion of jazz, ‘of rock’ a'roll,of hashish and barbiturates Paint on my body the wet dreams ‘of Kinsey’s homosexuals and the whores of New York, ‘Engrave on my body that lady ‘on television eho says “Tibetan mushrooms ate preferable fora Wednesday meal." ‘Engrave on my body my voice on a 78 RPM disc ‘Singing the Star Spangled Banaer ‘Then circulate my face at night on pennies ‘on toilet paper ‘on copybooks ‘on cheap underwear. ‘That's what Marya Monroe said that morning ‘going into the loos of New York ‘holding lace womb in her hands her false eyelashes and her head.IN MEMORIAM, Jn the end he may never have alighted from any tain ‘but had stood thete for days before me waiting for someone ‘no ode or nothing. He mey have been a sated bind in Piraeus Steet ora fossilized deer on tae ross ~ these deaths are painted inside us without wings, ‘without music, without entrances and exits, so they remain deaths ‘at ll times oa the ground, in the earth, ‘In the end it may not have been me but someone else _ who had arrived days ahead atthe station under “the stopped clock in anticipation of a meeting that Sunday afternoon, I may well have been the betrayed ‘demonstration, the deserter, the entry of the defeated through "the portrait of his posthumous fame, the sniffer ‘That afternoon we discovered our face, We were no longer ourselves. - _ We were handsome then. Something rare_VERONIKI DALAKOURA Translated by John Taylor ‘THE OTHER ONE _ [found him drunk in the street, I was seeking a doorway to shelter myself from the rain; he, however, touching my wrist, motioned with his eyes over to a sinall shopping arcade ‘on the other side of the avenue. My fingers trembling, Tiooked at him again from up close. But before T could speak ‘about the darkness, he said: “Good God, how ugly and tragic you are!” The noise of a car approaching made him take a few sober steps backward. My friends were very few in number, Wanting ~ 0 get to know him, I persuaded him to come up to my room: even if he did't want to drink anytiing, I would just look at him “while the melancholic evening passed, serenely. He did come up. He stayed until midnight. He stayed ‘and vomited on the floor, because on my face he discovered the paradoxical features of his ancestors, the bushy moustache and the eyelashes, the eyelids and the skin of time rotting ‘away, forever confined to that space. On my mouth ‘was his girl cousin. On my right thigh rested his dead child, who _before its birth, dazed by the glittering reflections of the maternal body, exploded. But he whorn he loved the most, his sister's husband, the one who stiled the seas, hung from any earlobe, sometimes rocking rhythmically back and forth, sometimes changing positions, crossing one knee over the other and snuffling. “v's already the day after and the sun's setting,” he murmured. leaned against him. Through the tiny corridor wall T then sav a lady nonchalantiy thrusting her torso forwards, knocking, down the solid bricks so she could pass, I didn't recognize ‘her She was blond-haired, and ia my memory feeble from drunkenness represented something excessively abstract, to0 vague to be real. ‘But by this time she had entered the room. Her eyes had an icy look about them. Her clothes were nearly azure in colour, already _worn by the passing of some remote, well defined period of time, “It's her,” my friend said slowly.‘And as he got up from his chair he made a broad gesture, searching for his coat so he could leave. The lady, after remaining motionless for a few moments, then turned her back and with the same movement, ploughing, that is, into the grey surface of the wall with her shoulder first, smashed open, an enormous hole, as tall as she was, and vanished. ‘We remained speechless, More dumbfounded than -terrorstricken, the strange man folded his arms across hie - chest and sighed. Neither of us knew anything about death, _ and the presence, vague and imperceptible to our banal Dittemess, symbolized what we called, all too simply, absence. “Women who continue to live like men,” he said “are very few indeed. So where will I find the Egyptian face of my dreams and the ribbons that crossed her Forehead? Ah. ‘A Story of passion and the delectations of love when you didn't know anything about passion, For my own pleasure numbers its days and discards, for a body always betrays my body. No matter how many simple words we say, one day the wearisome health of nature will overbrim and in it you alone shall. seek the colour of your breathing. To sey more 1c _ for time is passing and years have gone by since T light of those hands is my eyes, ‘Then I stopped listening to the distant voices street, I didoit help him down the stairsDIMITRA CHRISTODOULOU ‘Two poems translated by Popi Petrakow ‘THE WAYFARER’S FINDINGS ‘He carried on his back up to bere Such stones, ‘The water, the sand, the spade. Hie traced the rough drawing on the Tang Reckoning the labour costs. ‘The poor man... Now that he Fas closed ls yes Let me knit for hi. ‘A waistcoat out of flowers, Daisies, rushes, cyclamens. ‘Then Fil walk on again. ‘A.Wolf with tae bulletin his leg ‘Might come up here to finish once His home, But even so, tae heap with the material ‘Will become some sort of dwelling “A good, in the wind, monumentEts soat i cau Gu an wip bind Gt” 2 = For he was holding the candle, op thee euber spinbe ‘The dcor-bang faded away And I was losing him, ts welor cvesthing “But for certainty that ‘Several hours ater soe Dawn will come. sYANNIS TZANETAKIS — translated by Yannis Goumas “indeed the morning frost er them at this hour they hunger for the hunter they are fables in need of us all colours which