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Dimitris Nollas Greece PWF 2008, 1997
“Everything that man offers to himself is condemned to forgetfulness, except love which shines like a diamond.”
Born in 1940, in the village of Adriani-Drama, Dimitris Nollas is one of Greece’s most distinguished authors. His collection of short stories Tender Skin was awarded the National Prize in 1983, and his novel A Tomb Near the Sea received the National Prize in 1993.
A founding member of the Scriptwriters’ Guild of Greece, Dimitris Nollas has co-written a numerous feature films, which include The Beekeeper, Absences, Scars of the Night, and Shores of Twilight. His novel I Dream of My Friends was described as “the most creative film adaptation of Modern Greek literature”.
Nollas’ most recent collections are The Man who Forgot Himself, Misty Windowpanes, The Old Enemy, and Leaves of Tobacco.
Dimitris Nollas lives in Athens, where he serves as the president of the National Book Center of Greece.
Dimitris Nollas: The Old Enemy
11.04.2008 Readings
It was during a long walk that I wondered if perhaps I were in a genre tale and not in one of Piraeus’ older neighborhoods, through the back streets of which I’d been aimlessly roaming for some time now. My suspicion became a certainty when I realized that I’d spent the greater part of my time following in the footsteps of a hawker who for some time now held me captivated so that I was walking around an invisible center, which was becoming ever more distant, ever more indistinct, as I followed him in a daze.
Dimitris Nollas: The Rusted Knife
11.04.2008 Readings
That the “Vortex” enjoyed a privileged position was as plain as day. It was the one bar that operated legally in a ten-kilometre radius and the sole bar between the docks and the workers’ district. In fact, you might be forgiven for taking it to be part of the Shipyard as it was much nearer to this than to the houses at the edge of our little town.
Dimitris Nollas: A Little Night Music on a Lighted Balcony
11.04.2008 Readings
Like a candle-flame, a twinkling star moving in a fatal orbit, the woman got up, wrapped in a large yellow towel. A tender shoot, her black hair still wet, she stood on tiptoe before the half-open balcony door and said, “You’ve cut me to the quick”. The colours of dusk made the light on the balcony seem like a lamp fixed on a shoal and only made things worse.
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