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whose entire life story could fit into a gravestone in-scription, to such a degree that it made you wonder where he found the material to supply such a plethoric piece of work. A person, distant and unsociable, who tasted freedom, as oxymoronic as it sounds, more by withdrawing himself both into his own self and lair rather than in crowds, minglings, comings and goings which, especially as of late, he considered to be taking up precious time from the only activity that now gen-erally offered him rare delights - writing. Who, him? Who, as a student, had never managed to hand in a de-cent essay with an introduction, main body and con-clusion? Who only through threats or blackmail by his mother would sit down and write a letter, a shoddy one at that, to his grandma in the village? Who had never once submitted even the smallest sample of a short story for literary review? Who had never taken a single creative writing seminar?

His first steps in prose writing came late, at some point in his fifties, at an age, that is, when others reach the zenith of their maturity and creativity. Stergiou thought it as pointless to sit there and imagine what levels of mastery Panopoulos could have reached had he started sooner, as it was useful to figure out why he had start-ed so late. The answer however, that that’s when the

All right, you’ve said it. Do you want to be given an award too?

Mastery? Change it to just plain level, it’s enough already

Simos Panopoulos