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>their sexual or writing instincts, they would purposely throw them-selves into watching porn and films d’auteur respec-tively. Or where the former would fantasize, but in vain, scenes of wild sex with himself at the epicentre, the latter would imagine, but pointlessly, sceneries for his main protagonist. Or, where the one would try to chat up someone completely uninteresting sim-ply as a warm up, in view of, amen to that, the inter-esting one, the other would jot down in his notepad ideas that had nothing to do with the novel, in hopes that one day those that did would spring to mind. Un-avoidably, whatever he may have written down lately

- Lack of what, the reader will justifiably ask.

- Well, if the reader is not concentrating, there’s no way to get the fact that they were both wor-rying over the lack of the lack. Of the desire of sex the one, of writing, the other.

So that he didn’t lose the hang of it, is probably better.

Simos Panopoulos - Look at that

142

resembled a dish made out of different kinds of left-overs that would be a sin to throw away. A dish that on top of everything else, want to or not, you had to eat up till the end.

From a quantitative point of view now, this time last year, go figure, his coming to the village, the abun-dance of stimuli, the fresh air, the nature, the iodine of the sea, the swimming, the carefreeness of holi-daymaking had all unexpectedly doped him up, so much that within a week he had written as much as it had taken him more than a month to do in the city. So, at night, he would forthwith go to bed with a text on his side that he never would have imagined when he had got up that very morning. This year, conversely, his departure from the city, the scarcity of inputs in the village, the swimming, the summer sluggishness, the comings and goings, the iodine of the sea that seemed to almost drug him, had unex-pectedly slowed him down, so much that his entire harvest up until that morning did not exceed even one fourth of all that in the city he would churn out in the space of a quarter of an hour. Therefore, the following text not even half a page long would be on his bedside when he woke up in the morning and went to bed at night:

Simos Panopoulos - Look at that

143

“In his upgrade, generally, from the status of a bud-ding writer to that of a not-yet newly-appeared one, the understanding that writing, in the end, was a race

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