Elias H. Papadimitrakopoulos
Archivist General
ed. Kichli, p. 128

Rare, elite authors need the care of the bibliophile space, the undivided attention of publishers, bibliographers, critics and, of course, readers. Therefore, the zeal with which Kihli’s publications remind us of the presence in the Greek letters of the great prose writer Ilias X. Papadimithracopoulos is commendable. After the reprints of Chlorophyll Toothpaste and Sea Baths, Archivist General (1989), a collection of twelve short stories, is now out. On the pages we again find black humor, the flight into sleep, the showering of fragments of memories, the sudden intrusion of graceful flashes, aliens from outside, “as if the whole world below did not intervene”, and, above all, subtle writing that resists chatter, as well as the murmur of nostalgia. . The discreet atmosphere of the stories is now broken by irony, now by sadness. In the first verse, the Spartan review of feet, sometimes especially smelly feet, but also an indication of Christian love through washing them, ends with a blurry erotic desire. In the title of the prose collection, a review of the provincial press, and especially of two newspapers from his native Pyrgos, adds to the euphoric atmosphere of the news of the suicide of Napoleon Lapatiotis. Reading about the ladies of the local lords, Papadimithrakopoulos points to “a penchant for writing poetry” and “attempts to draw”, and after four pages he recalls that he kept a sheet of newspaper that reported the poet’s suicide. In the works of Papadimitrakopoulos, “what is happening, what is happening or what threatens” is weakly erased, drowning an excess of sadness in muddy waters. The passage, for example, of the Philharmonic through the sights of the birthplace dissipates commemorative echoes until it stops at the father’s house, from where the father is forever absent. Equally heartbreaking is the cyclist’s transition to the selective pedestrian, who, by making treacherous, endless turns, seems to be wasting the writer-observer’s time. The main place of concentration of time is a picturesque ethnographic courtyard. Nothing to do with the one Papadimitrakopoulos recalled, where the cesspool lived in the middle of a flowering landscape, breathing stinking “air bubbles.” However, the narrator’s discomfort has another cause, it is the accumulation of time that stagnates, piercing mortals with a respite of old age. The mournful ringing of the bell became a wake-up call for the children who, due to the occupation, studied in the church. Every funeral was a moment of celebration and commentary, for “while the lesson was in the throes of its boredom, we suddenly heard drawn-out chants, and after a while the bell began to ring softly and mournfully above our heads. The picture bears witness to the terrible connection in which Papadimithracopoulos, ground squirrel and measles stand out. This mingling shines through in “Hernia Surgery”, where the fear of death that hangs over every hospital ward collides head-on with the din of everyday life that provokes its own persistent objections. Papadimithrakopoulos’ letter evokes a feeling of farewell. The author does not grieve, he returns to say goodbye, exhaling from the presence of retribution. The past is always there, waiting for him, insistently “pulls to those memories.” And the letter, with its exquisitely detailed art, perpetuates visits-returns that seem to await Virtuously fluctuating on the scales of life and death, the works of Papadimithrakopoulos lean toward life with an ironic, melancholy laugh, but allow shocks on another scale to disturb them.