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passionate supporter, so he was admonished. It was obvious, he was reproached, that he had become a victim of a syndrome similar not so much to Stock-holm, where the hostages end up developing an emo-tional attachment to their kidnappers, but more so of embedded reporters, whose news reports are scandal-ously friendly towards the entity that accredited them. What was expected from a dissertation of a School of Philosophy in name but of Philology in essence, – the purely literary analysis of a piece of work – had conversely, he was reprimanded, inexplicably been brushed aside, brutally underestimated. Not a single word about Panopoulos’ literary influences. Complete silence about his contribution to Greek literature. Not a peep as to what his novelty was all about. He was barely given a pass. Not a mention about publishing a paper in an authoritative magazine. A pure wreck, he abandoned the premises in a hurry, crossed the campus surrendered to his thoughts and made his way towards Kaisariani64. That same night, he would be writing the first line in what was bound to become his first novel. His subject of choice – the life and work of someone there was nothing to indicate he would become a writer.

64 Suburb in Athens where the University campus is situated.