Ἄλμπα Ὀμίλ (Alba Omil): Ἐμμονές

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Omil,Alba-Emmones-Eikona-03

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Ἄλ­μπα Ὀ­μίλ (Alba Omil)

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Ἐμμονές

(Obsesiones)

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O-Omikron-SomataΝΕΙΡΕΥΤΗΚΑ πὼς μὲ φι­λοῦ­σαν: ἦ­ταν μό­νο ὁ παλ­μὸς τοῦ ὀ­νό­μα­τός σου ποὺ ἐ­κεί­νη τὴ νύ­χτα κοι­μή­θη­κε ἀ­νά­με­σα στὰ χεί­λη μου.

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Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04.

Πη­γή: Mini71cuentos, Ἀν­θο­λο­γί­α ἰ­σπα­νό­φω­νου δι­η­γή­μα­τος, Δί­γλωσ­ση ἔκ­δο­ση, Ἐ­πι­λο­γὴ – Εἰ­σα­γω­γὴ – Με­τα­φρα­στικὴ ἐ­πι­μέ­λεια: Κων­σταν­τῖ­νος Πα­λαι­ο­λό­γος, Ἐκ­δό­σεις Μι­χά­λη Σι­δέ­ρη, Ἀ­θή­να 2012.

Ἄλ­μπα Ὁ­μίλ (Alba Omil) (Ἀργεντινή, 1998). Κα­θη­γή­τρια, συγ­γρα­φέ­ας καὶ ἐκ­δό­τρια γεν­νη­μέ­νη στὸ Ρε­κρέ­ο τῆς ἐ­παρ­χί­ας τῆς Κα­τα­μάρ­κα τῆς Ἀρ­γεν­τι­νῆς το 1929. Ὑ­πῆρ­ξε δι­ευ­θύν­τρια τοῦ λο­γο­τε­χνι­κοῦ πε­ρι­ο­δι­κοῦ, ποὺ ἵ­δρυ­σε ἡ συγ­γρα­φέ­ας Victoria Ocampo, La Revista Sur. Ἀ­νά­με­σα στὰ πο­λυ­ά­ριθ­μα βι­βλί­α της ξε­χω­ρί­ζουν ἡ συλ­λο­γὴ δι­η­γη­μά­των Historias de mujeres y de hombres καὶ Tener ángel καὶ τὸ δο­κί­μιο El cuento y sus claves. To «Obsesiones» πε­ρι­λαμ­βά­νενται στὴ συλ­λο­γὴ Con fondo de jazz, Του­κου­μάν, Ἐ­θνι­κὸ Πα­νε­πι­στή­μιο τοῦ Του­κου­μάν, 1998.

Με­τά­φρα­ση ἀ­πὸ τὰ ἰ­σπα­νι­κά:

Ἐρ­γα­στή­ριο Με­τά­φρα­σης Μι­κρο­δι­η­γη­μά­των ἀ­πὸ τὰ ἰ­σπα­νι­κὰ στὰ ἑλ­λη­νι­κὰ ὑ­πὸ τὴν ἐ­πί­βλε­ψη τοῦ Κων­σταν­τί­νου Πα­λαι­ο­λό­γου. Πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ρα βλ. «Ἡ­με­ρο­λό­γιο Κα­τα­στρώ­μα­τος» (Ἡ­με­ρο­μη­νί­α: 16-07-2013).

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Vassilis Tsiambousis: Monday

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Tsiampousis,Basilis-IDeytera-Eikona-03(Foto= HolgerMöhle)

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Vassilis Tsiambousis

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Monday

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06-sHE CAREFULLY UNDRESSED HIM. The water in the pot was almost boiling. She washed his hair, his armpits, his feet… She rinsed the soap off and wrapped him in a worn out bath robe. They crossed the yard and climbed up the stairs to the house. The belt was trailing on the ground and he even lost his slipper at one point. She dressed him in festive clothes and gave him some cheap cologne. She kissed him on the forehead and accompanied him to the front door.

       Despite his hastiness it took him an hour to get there. He had a problem in his arms and legs and was walking as slow as a snail. He climbed the stairs and entered the small living room. He was alone. He sat on a chair and waited.

      She came out of her room wearing a red nightgown. “The only one we needed now was you…,” she said. “I am not available today, come back next Monday.” She entered the bathroom. The flush was heard. The door opened and a bad odor filled the room. “Still here? Why don’t you go to someone else, is mine made of honey? All these years and we never found a faithful man and fate brought us you…” Why was she taking it upon this relic now… She lifted her nightgown up to her shoulders. “Come, damn you, I don’t want you to say that you stayed hungry…” He could see her breasts, her belly and a huge black underpants stuffed with cotton strips. “Come, you can touch a little if you want…”

      He suddenly felt shy and lowered his gaze. He left a hundred drachmas on the table and went out. He took the street that led to the public gardens. He bought a sandwich and sat on a an isolated bench. He gave his battle in the dark, but he was not redeemed. His hands and trousers were filled with mustard. He buttoned up. He didn’t like moving at all.

      This Monday was unremarkable. And tomorrow he will start his everyday struggle, the agony to sell his lottery tickets. Six days of passing from offices, tavernas… and every street is uphill for him. And only next Monday night – every Monday after the draw – he will again have three hours for himself, family time, himself, his mother and his lover.

      Tonight the bath was useless – “The roof of the washing room needs mending,” said the mother – useless were the two hours walk to her house, since he didn’t have those five minutes of his redemption.

      Tonight a whole week’s work was pointless. “Our whole life is useless, mother, I wish this Monday would never dawn.”

      He started slowly for his home. He was very tired. The moon rose and lighted up his path. A hungry dog neared the bench and devoured the leftovers of his sand

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Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04.

Source: From the short story collection I Vespa and other provincial short stories (Nefeli editions, Athens, 1990).

Vassilis Tsiambousis (Drama, Greece 1953). Studied Civil Engineering at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He lives and works in Drama. His first book is I Vespa and other provincial short stories (Nefeli editions, Athens, 1990). His last book is: Na s’ agapaei i zoi (Short stories, Pataki editions, 2004).

Translated from the greek by

Vassilis Manoussakis (Athens, 1972). Poet, short-story writer, translator. He holds a Ph.D. in Con­tem­porary American Poetry. He currently teaches at the Hellenic American University in Athens.

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Argiris Chionis: The joy of knowledge

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Chionis,Argyris-ICharaTisGnosis-Eikona-05

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Argiris Chionis

 

The joy of knowledge

 

01-W-Century_Mag_Illuminated_W_BarbizonHEN THE FIRST PUZZLEMENT went away, he tried to understand what was happening. Despite the biting, intolerable pain he felt in the middle of his back, he strived to turn his head to see what that ferocious vice that was cutting his body in two was.

He kept losing and regaining his senses and kept trying, until eventually he stopped and remained still looking that strangely woven wire in front of him and that piece of cheese he so desired a while ago but now was looking at it indifferently and considered it distant.

       Time was passing and the vice was penetrating even deeper into his body, as his flesh and bones were surrendering slowly to its tight grip. He felt his entrails sticking together and he had the taste of vomit and blood in his mouth.

       He was losing and regaining his senses, but he was so tense, that even without having his senses, his eyes were impossible to close. He had his eyes open thus, looking in front of him (seeing and non-seeing interchangeably) the small yellow (or maybe green, red or blue or…) piece of cheese he so desired a while ago (a while?) and now was looking at it indifferently and considered it distant, very distant or… close, very close, so close he would think at times that it had entered his head and was growing, growing… pressing the walls of his skull, making them creak.

       He was trapped there, face to face with that piece of cheese growing and diminishing, going away and coming closer and in his tired mind started dawning shyly the thought that the strange piece of cheese, growing and diminishing, going away and coming closer, was an enemy that set him a trap.

       He was losing and regaining his senses, always keeping his eyes open, striving, in the bright intervals, to remember his past life, to put his thoughts in order and to find the root of evil, as if it was possible to open the vice that tightened its grip on his crushed body.

       He thought, first and foremost, what he did differently (the danger always lurks in the different thing, right?) that time than all the other times, the previous ones.

       He tried to remember all the details:

       How he waited to get dark…

       How he waited for those weird noises scaring him to stop

       How he emerged from the hole of…

       How he followed his smell…

       How… CRUNCH!

       Everything had happened as usual and only that terrible clatter and that vice, cutting now his body in half, were the unknown elements. These were the result, though.

       Aching more and more, with his eyes drier and the cheese growing and diminishing incessantly in front of them, losing and regaining his senses, thoughts he never had before came to him, because before he LIVED and that was, or at least it seemed to be simple and self-evident.

       For the first time, he started wondering why he was scared by the daylight, why was he trying to avoid it?

       He couldn’t understand though and he kept passing out.

       His agony lasted long.

       His tired mind kept revolving around the same thoughts, to no avail.

       Pinned there with his eyes open toward the piece of cheese incessantly growing and diminishing, with the vice wedged in his flesh, white darkness found him and it took the place of the black.

       The noises that once scared him (only in the past) were heard again and they came closer, until they stopped beside him. Then, a magnificent force lifted him high and unstuck the vice from his body.

       Right before he fell into the hot water, he understood. It was the first time in his life he understood something.

       He almost felt happy and if he wasn’t only a mouse he might smile.

 

Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04

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Source: From the short story collection Istories mias palias epohis pou den irthe akoma (Aigokeros editions, Athens, 1981).

Argiris Chionis (Athens, 1943-Throfari, Korinthia, 2011). Poetry, prose, translation. Lived and worked in Throfari, Korinthia. A collective edition of his poems is: I foni tis siopis. Poiimata1966-2000 (Nefeli editions, Athens, 2006). His last book: O,ti perigrafo me perigrafei. Poiisi Domatiou (Gavriilides editions, Athens, 2010).

Translated from the greek by

Vassilis Manoussakis (Athens, 1972). Poet, short-story writer, translator. He holds a Ph.D. in Con­tem­porary American Poetry. He currently teaches at the Hellenic American University in Athens.

Ἀγαθοκλῆς Ἀζέλης: Ματαιωμένοι Λάζαροι

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Azelis,Agathoklis-MataiomenoiLazaroi-Eikona-02

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Ἀ­γα­θο­κλῆς Ἀ­ζέ­λης

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Μα­ται­ω­μέ­νοι Λά­ζα­ροι

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01-SigmaΦΡΑΓΙΖΟΝΤΑΣ ΤΗΝ ΠΟΡΤΑ πίσω της θαρ­ροῦ­σε πὼς ὅ­λοι ἀ­κι­νη­το­ποι­οῦν­ταν· ἀν­τι­κεί­με­να, μη­χα­νι­σμοὶ καὶ ἔμ­βιοι ὀρ­γα­νι­σμοὶ πά­γω­ναν, λέ­ει, στὴ στά­ση ποὺ εἶ­χαν τὴ στιγ­μὴ τῆς ἀ­να­χώ­ρη­σης. Δὲν θὰ πά­λι­ω­ναν οὔ­τε θὰ γερ­νοῦ­σαν πο­τέ, θὰ πε­ρί­με­ναν μό­νο τὴν ἐ­πα­νεκ­κί­νη­ση μὲ τὴν ἐν­δε­χό­με­νη ἐ­πι­στρο­φή της. Ὅ­πως συμ­βαί­νει μὲ τὴν ἐ­νερ­γο­ποί­η­ση ἑ­νὸς δι­α­κό­πτη. Ἔ­χον­τας αὐ­τὴ τὴ βε­βαι­ό­τη­τα κρα­τοῦ­σε γιὰ τὸν ἑ­αυ­τό της τὸ ἀ­πο­κλει­στι­κὸ δι­καί­ω­μα τῆς κί­νη­σης, τῆς με­τα­κί­νη­σης, τῆς συγ­κί­νη­σης καὶ γε­νι­κῶς. Μὲ τὸν ἴ­διο τρό­πο κλεί­δω­νε πολ­λὰ δω­μά­τια στὸ πέ­ρα­σμά της. Συν­τη­ροῦ­σε τοὺς πο­λύ­τι­μους ἐ­νοί­κους γιὰ τὸ μέλ­λον. Ὅ­ταν ξό­δε­ψε ὅ­λες τὶς ἀ­νοι­χτὲς πόρ­τες, σκέ­φτη­κε νὰ κά­νει μιὰ ἐ­πι­θε­ώ­ρη­ση τῶν ἀ­γαλ­μά­των τοῦ πα­ρελ­θόν­τος. Μὲ τὴν ἀρ­μα­θιὰ τῶν κλει­δι­ῶν στὸ χέ­ρι, ἄρ­χι­σε τὴν ἀ­να­δρο­μή. Ὅ­μως ἀ­πὸ τὶς ὀρ­θά­νοι­χτες πόρ­τες μπαι­νό­βγαι­ναν μὲ τὴ συ­νή­θη γε­ρον­τι­κὴ δυ­σκι­νη­σί­α οἱ ἔγ­κλει­στοι τῆς μνή­μης της. Πα­ρα­δό­ξως τὰ ἀ­γάλ­μα­τα ἦ­ταν συ­νο­μή­λι­κά της.

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Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04.

Πη­γή: Πρώ­τη δη­μο­σί­ευ­ση.

Ἀγα­θο­κλῆς Ἀ­ζέ­λης (Μη­λιὰ Με­τσό­βου, 1963). Φι­λό­λο­γος στὴ Δευ­τε­ρο­βάθ­μια Ἐκ­παί­δευ­ση, ἀ­πό­φοι­τος τῆς Φι­λο­σο­φι­κῆς Ἀ­θη­νῶν καὶ δι­δά­κτο­ρας τοῦ Πα­νε­πι­στη­μί­ου τῆς Βι­έν­νης. Πρῶ­το του βι­βλί­ο: Νύ­χτες στὸ θρυμ­μα­τι­σμέ­νο ἐ­νυ­δρεῖ­ο, Ἀ­θή­να, 2008, (ποί­η­ση). Δη­μο­σί­ευ­σε με­τα­φρά­σεις γερ­μα­νό­φω­νης λο­γο­τε­χνί­ας.

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Ἀλέξανδρος Βαναργιώτης: Ἱστορίες τῆς πόρτας

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Banargiotis,Aleksandros-IstoriesTisPortas-Eikona-01

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Ἀ­λέ­ξαν­δρος Βα­ναρ­γι­ώ­της

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Ἱ­στο­ρί­ες τῆς πόρ­τας

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16-AlphaΝΟΙΞΑ τὴν πόρ­τα. Δὲν τὸ πε­ρί­με­να. Δὲν πί­στε­ψα ὅ­τι θὰ ἔρ­θει.

— Τί εὐ­χά­ρι­στη ἔκ­πλη­ξη!

       — Μή­πως ἐ­νο­χλῶ;

       — Ὄ­χι, ἴ­σα ἴ­σα ἤ­θε­λα πα­ρέ­α τώ­ρα. Λεί­πει καὶ ἡ Μα­ρί­α.

       — Σοῦ εἶ­πα πὼς θὰ πε­ρά­σω.

       Κά­θι­σε στὸ σα­λό­νι κι ἔ­σπευ­σα νὰ φέ­ρω γλυ­κὸ καὶ νὰ φτιά­ξω κα­φέ.

       Ὅ­ταν τὸν βρῆ­κα στὴ λα­ϊ­κὴ τὴν Τε­τάρ­τη ἄρ­γη­σα νὰ τὸν ἀ­να­γνω­ρί­σω. Ἦ­ταν ἐν­τε­λῶς ἀλ­λαγ­μέ­νος. Κι ἐ­κεῖ­νος δὲν μὲ γνώ­ρι­σε ἀ­μέ­σως. Τρί­α χρό­νια συμ­μα­θη­τές, στὸ Γυ­μνά­σιο, κα­θό­μα­σταν σὲ δι­πλα­νὰ θρα­νί­α. Με­τὰ πῆ­γε στὸ Τε­χνι­κό. Καὶ τώ­ρα εἶ­χε μεί­νει ἀ­πὸ τὴ μορ­φή του μό­νο ἐ­κεί­νη ἡ σπιρ­τά­δα στὰ μά­τια καὶ τὸ χα­μό­γε­λο τὸ «μπα­γα­πόν­τι­κο», ὅ­πως ἔ­λε­γα τό­τε.

       Δὲν ἔ­κρυ­ψα τὴ χα­ρά μου. Δὲν συμ­βαί­νει συ­χνὰ νὰ γί­νε­σαι ξαφ­νι­κὰ πά­λι δώ­δε­κα χρο­νῶ. Ἔ­στω καὶ γιὰ λί­γο. Ὅ­σο κρα­τᾶ μιὰ συ­νάν­τη­ση στὴ γω­νί­α ἑ­νὸς δρό­μου μιὰ τυ­χαί­α Δευ­τέ­ρα ἀ­πὸ τὶς τό­σες Δευ­τέ­ρες τοῦ χρό­νου. Βι­α­ζό­ταν καὶ τὸν προ­σκά­λε­σα νὰ ἔρ­θει ἀ­πὸ τὸ σπί­τι.

       — Πό­τε; μὲ ρώ­τη­σε.

       — Ὅ­πο­τε θές, τοῦ ἀ­πάν­τη­σα. Τὸ σπί­τι μου εἶ­ναι ἀ­νοι­χτὸ γιὰ σέ­να.

       — Πό­τε; μὲ ξα­να­ρώ­τη­σε.

       — Κά­θε ἀ­πό­γευ­μα με­τὰ τὶς ἑ­πτὰ εἶ­μαι σπί­τι.

       — Ἐν­τά­ξει, θὰ ἔρ­θω.

       Ἦρ­θε δύ­ο μέ­ρες με­τά.

       Ὑ­πῆρ­ξε μιὰ ἀ­μη­χα­νί­α. Τὸν ρώ­τη­σα γιὰ τὴ Δέ­σποι­να, τὴ γυ­ναί­κα του καὶ τὰ παι­διά. Μοῦ ἀ­παν­τοῦ­σε κο­φτὰ δί­νον­τάς μου τὶς πλη­ρο­φο­ρί­ες ποὺ ζη­τοῦ­σα, χω­ρὶς νὰ πεῖ κά­τι ἀ­π’ τὸ ὁ­ποῖ­ο νὰ πια­στῶ καὶ νὰ συ­νε­χί­σω τὴ συ­ζή­τη­ση. Ἡ Δέ­σποι­να, δα­σκά­λα, δού­λευ­ε σὲ ἕ­να κον­τι­νὸ χω­ριό, πη­γαι­νο­ερ­χό­ταν. Κα­λὰ ἦ­ταν. Τὰ παι­διὰ σπού­δα­ζαν, ἐν­τά­ξει κι αὐ­τά.

       Τὸ πῆ­γα στὰ παι­δι­κά μας χρό­νια, στὶς ἐκ­δρο­μὲς καὶ στὶς πλά­κες ποὺ κά­να­με. Χα­μο­γε­λοῦ­σε συγ­κρα­τη­μέ­να.

       — Ναί, ναί, ἔ­λε­γε, ὡ­ραί­α χρό­νια, φο­βε­ρὴ φά­ση.

       Μί­λη­σα ἀ­κό­μη καὶ γιὰ τὸ στρα­τό, τοῦ δι­η­γή­θη­κα μὲ με­λο­δρα­μα­τι­κὸ τό­νο τὴ με­τέ­πει­τα ζω­ή μου, ἀ­πὸ σχο­λεῖ­ο σὲ σχο­λεῖ­ο, τα­λαι­πω­ρί­ες, πε­ρι­πέ­τει­ες σὲ ὀ­ρει­νὰ χω­ριὰ καὶ τὴν πε­ρι­πό­θη­τη με­τά­θε­ση με­τὰ ἀ­πὸ δε­κα­ο­χτὼ χρό­νια στὰ πα­τρῶ­α ἐ­δά­φη, χω­ρὶς ὅ­μως νὰ κα­τα­φέ­ρω νὰ τὸν «λύ­σω».

       Ἔ­νευ­ε συγ­κα­τα­βα­τι­κά, «ναί, κα­τα­λα­βαί­νω, δύ­σκο­λες κα­τα­στά­σεις, τὰ ἴ­δια πε­ρί­που καὶ ἡ Δέ­σποι­να».

       Σφί­χτη­κε τὸ στο­μά­χι μου. Κά­ποι­α στιγ­μὴ κου­ρά­στη­κα καὶ στα­μά­τη­σα. Πῆ­ρα τὸν κα­φὲ καὶ ἔ­πι­να ἥ­συ­χα χω­ρὶς νὰ μι­λά­ω. Ἔ­πε­σε σι­ω­πή. Ἀ­κού­γον­ταν μό­νο τα αὐ­το­κί­νη­τα ἀ­πὸ τὸ δρό­μο καὶ ἡ τη­λε­ό­ρα­ση τοῦ ἡ­λι­κι­ω­μέ­νου γεί­το­να ποὺ τὴν βά­ζει πάν­τα νὰ παί­ζει δυ­να­τά.

       — Νὰ φεύ­γω τώ­ρα, εἶ­πε καὶ ση­κώ­θη­κε. Πρέ­πει νὰ πε­ρά­σω καὶ λί­γο ἀ­πὸ τὴ μά­να μου μή­πως θέ­λει κά­τι.

       Στα­θή­κα­με στὴν εἴ­σο­δο καὶ ἀ­πο­χαι­ρε­τι­στή­κα­με. Τὸν κοί­τα­ξα ἴ­σα στὰ μά­τια. Πρὸς τί αὐ­τὴ ἡ ἐ­πί­σκε­ψη; ἀ­να­ρω­τή­θη­κα. Μὲ κοί­τα­ξε κι ἐ­κεῖ­νος. Πῆ­γε κά­τι νὰ πεῖ κι ἕ­νας λυγ­μὸς ἔ­σπα­σε τὴ φω­νή του. Τὰ μά­τια του γέ­μι­σαν δά­κρυ­α.

       — Εἶ­μαι ἄρ­ρω­στος, μοῦ λέ­ει. Ἕ­ξι μῆ­νες μοῦ ἔ­δω­σαν.

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Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04

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Πη­γή: Ἀ­πὸ τὴν συλ­λο­γὴ δι­η­γη­μά­των Ἡ θε­ω­ρί­α τῶν χαρ­τα­ε­τῶν (ἐκδ. Πα­ρά­ξε­νες Μέ­ρες, Ἀ­θή­να, 2014).

Ἀ­λέ­ξαν­δρος Βα­ναρ­γι­ώ­της (Τρί­κα­λα Θεσ­σα­λί­ας, 1966). Σπού­δα­σε στὸ Κλα­σι­κὸ Τμῆ­μα τῆς Φι­λο­σο­φι­κῆς Σχο­λῆς Ἰ­ω­αν­νί­νων. Ἐρ­γά­ζε­ται ὡς κα­θη­γη­τὴς Φι­λό­λο­γος στὴ δη­μό­σια Μέ­ση Ἐκ­παί­δευ­ση. Δη­μο­σί­ευ­σε τὶς συλ­λο­γὲς δι­η­γη­μά­των Δι­η­γή­μα­τα γιὰ τὸ τέ­λος τῆς μέ­ρας (Ἐκ­δό­σεις Λο­γεῖ­ον, Τρί­κα­λα, 2009) καὶ Ἡ θε­ω­ρί­α τῶν χαρ­τα­ε­τῶν (ἐκδ. Πα­ρά­ξε­νες Μέ­ρες, Ἀ­θή­να, 2014).

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Ἄνχελ Ὀλγόσο (Ángel Olgoso): Ἡ προσμονή

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Olgoso,Ángel-IProsmoni-Eikona-03

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Ἄν­χελ Ὀλ­γό­σο (Ángel Olgoso)

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προσμονή

(La expectativa)

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02-OmikronΜΠΟΡΑΝ κα­τα­δι­κά­στη­κε σὲ ἰ­σό­βια κά­θειρ­ξη. Πέ­ρα­σαν τὰ χρό­νια. Πέ­θα­ναν οἱ δε­σμο­φύ­λα­κες καὶ οἱ ἀν­τι­κα­τα­στά­τες τῶν δε­σμο­φυ­λά­κων. Ἐ­ξα­φα­νί­στη­κε τὸ ἀν­θρώ­πι­νο εἶ­δος. Τὰ ἀ­τσα­λέ­νια κάγ­κε­λα δι­α­λύ­θη­καν ἀ­πὸ τὴ συ­νε­χῆ καὶ ἀ­δυ­σώ­πη­τη δι­ά­βρω­ση τοῦ ἀ­έ­ρα. Τό­τε ὁ Μπο­ράν ἀ­πέ­δρα­σε. «Ἦ­ταν ἁ­πλῶς θέ­μα χρό­νου» μο­νο­λό­γη­σε.

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 Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04

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Πη­γή: Mini71cuentos, Ἀν­θο­λο­γί­α ἰ­σπα­νό­φω­νου δι­η­γή­μα­τος, Δί­γλωσ­ση ἔκ­δο­ση, Ἐ­πι­λο­γὴ – Εἰ­σα­γω­γὴ – Με­τα­φρα­στικὴ ἐ­πι­μέ­λεια: Κων­σταν­τῖ­νος Πα­λαι­ο­λό­γος, Ἐκ­δό­σεις Μι­χά­λη Σι­δέ­ρη, Ἀ­θή­να 2012.

Ἄν­χελ Ὀλ­γό­σο (Ángel Olgoso): (Γρα­νά­δα, 1961). Τὸ 1991 δη­μο­σί­ευ­σε τὸ πρῶ­το του βι­βλί­ο μὲ δι­η­γή­μα­τα μὲ τί­τλο Los dias subterraneos. Θε­ω­ρεῖ­ται ἀ­ρι­στο­τέ­χνης τοῦ μι­κρο­δι­η­γή­μα­τος. Tὸ «La expectativa» πε­ρι­λαμ­βά­νε­ται στὴ συλ­λο­γὴ Cuentos de otro mundo, Βα­γι­α­δο­λίδ, Caja España, 1999. Τὸ ἱστο­λό­γιό μας τοῦ ἔκα­νε ἀφιέ­ρω­μα, μὲ τὴν συ­νερ­γα­σί­α τῆς με­τα­φρά­στριάς του Νάν­συς Ἀγγελῆ, καὶ τοῦ πῆρε σχετικὴ συ­νέ­ντευ­ξη. Βλ. πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ρα ἐδῶ.

Με­τά­φρα­ση ἀ­πὸ τὰ ἰ­σπα­νι­κά:

Ἐρ­γα­στή­ριο Με­τά­φρα­σης Μι­κρο­δι­η­γη­μά­των ἀ­πὸ τὰ ἰ­σπα­νι­κὰ στὰ ἑλ­λη­νι­κὰ ὑ­πὸ τὴν ἐ­πί­βλε­ψη τοῦ Κων­σταν­τί­νου Πα­λαι­ο­λό­γου.

Πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ρα βλ. «Ἡ­με­ρο­λό­γιο Κα­τα­στρώ­μα­τος» (Ἡ­με­ρο­μη­νί­α: 16-07-2013).

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Achilleas Kiriakides: [Time flies and Lazarus…]

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Kyriakidis,Achilleas-[PernaeiOKairos...]-Eikona-07-Embryo-Photo=EddieLee

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Achilleas Kiriakides

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[Time flies and Lazarus…]

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15-tIME FLIES and Lazarus becomes more and more impatient, enclosed in the cave he has already walked from end to end, feeling its damp walls, like a short fused secret which strolls around a huge sealed mouth, or like a voice which hesitated the last moment and became haunting, on soft cheeks but on the unseen side, how is it possible that darkness exists in so many shapes, but sometimes he feels floating in a liquid firmament, swimming uncontrollably in a curious pool of lightness, like in the old days with his insecurity and all his troubles and he was looking then, before death we mean, to find the motive or the reason which would give him strength to navigate his life again, to believe like a good mortal should that everything is possible, that even the miracle belongs to the simplicity of logic, that he would be in here now, waiting in the dark antechamber, renting colour to his thoughts so as not to lose his mind, red and rosy and yellow and that colour that exists but has no name, as well as the one he would first see when he came out, and how could one stand such whiteness all at once, when the time comes and hears the voice from the past telling him to front and feel the gigantic pressure pushing him, like a rudderless boat heading surely to the waterfall, a storm of lights welcoming him and finding himself once more the speechless subject of a familiar grip, getting patted in the back again, hearing people wishing him to live long, and immediately bursting into tears.

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Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04.

 

Source: Achilleas Kiriakidis, Perverted Stories, Ipsilon editions, Athens 1988, [story xi].

Achilleas Kiriakidis (Cairo, 1946). Studied Economics. He has written short stories, small proese pieces, essays, scripts for short movies. His first book is the short story collection Diafaneia, Dodoni editions, 1973. He translates from Spanish and English.

Translated from the greek by

Vassilis Manoussakis (Athens, 1972). Poet, short-story writer, translator. He holds a Ph.D. in Con­tem­porary American Poetry. He currently teaches at the Hellenic American University in Athens.

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Δήμητρα Ἰ. Χριστοδούλου: Καύκα (Kawka)

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Δήμητρα Ἰ. Χριστοδούλου

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Καύκα (Kawka)

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06-Delta-Chronica_Polonorum_D

ΟΥΛΕΥΕ μαζὶ μὲ τὸν πατέρα του, τὸν θυ­ρω­ρὸ στὸ συγ­κρό­τη­μα τῶν κα­τοι­κι­ῶν ποὺ μέ­να­με. Ὅ­πως ὅ­λα τῆς πε­ρι­ο­χῆς τῶν λευ­κῶν, κά­λυ­πτε πε­ρι­φε­ρεια­κὰ ἕ­να οἰ­κο­δο­μι­κὸ τε­τρά­γω­νο καὶ στὸ ἐν­δι­ά­με­σο κε­νὸ δι­έ­θε­τε με­γά­λο κῆ­πο. Ὁ Καύκα ἐρ­χό­ταν τὸ πρω­ὶ κι ἔ­φευ­γε τὸ βρά­δυ μα­ζί του. Ἔκα­νε τὰ θε­λή­μα­τα τῶν ἐ­νοί­κων. Συ­νή­θως τὸν ἔ­παιρ­ναν μα­ζί τους στὴν μαρ­κέ­τα, ὅ­που πε­ρί­με­νε ἀ­κί­νη­τος, ὡς ὄ­φει­λε στὴ γω­νί­α, μέ­χρι νὰ τε­λει­ώ­σουν γιὰ νὰ κου­βα­λή­σει ὅ­λα τὰ ψώ­νια. Ἄλ­λο­τε τὸν ἔ­στελ­ναν νὰ πε­τά­ξει τὰ σκου­πί­δια. Κα­θη­με­ρι­νὰ ἔπρεπε νὰ τα­ΐ­­σει τὶς χε­λῶ­νες, τοὺς πα­πα­γά­λους, τὰ πα­γώ­νια καὶ τὶς πά­πι­ες τοῦ κή­που μας καὶ νὰ πε­ρι­ποι­η­θεῖ τὰ δέν­τρα καὶ τὰ λου­λού­δια. Ὅ­ταν δὲν εἶ­χε τί νὰ κά­νει κούρ­νια­ζε κά­τω ἀ­πὸ τὴν τυ­φλὴ κου­πα­στὴ τῆς σκά­λας ποὺ ὁ­δη­γοῦ­σε στὸν ἀ­κά­λυ­πτο. Καὶ πε­ρί­με­νε. Ἀ­πὸ τὸ πα­ρά­θυ­ρό μου πα­ρα­κο­λου­θοῦ­σα τοὺς ἀ­ει­κί­νη­τους βολ­βούς του στὸ σκο­τά­δι.

            Ὅ­ταν ἤ­μουν ἄρ­ρω­στη ἢ ἔ­κλει­νε λόγῳ ταραχῶν τὸ σχο­λεῖ­ο, ξέ­φευ­γα ἀ­πὸ τὴν τρο­φό μου,  τρύ­πω­να κά­τω ἀ­πὸ τὴν κου­πα­στὴ καὶ πε­ρί­με­να μα­ζί του. Ἔ­βγα­ζα κι ἐ­γὼ τὰ πα­πού­τσια μου καὶ τὰ ἄ­φη­να ἔ­ξω ἀ­πὸ τὴν κρυ­ψώ­να. Μὲ τὸν και­ρὸ μὲ ἄ­φη­σε νὰ κά­θο­μαι κον­τά του, μέ­χρι ποὺ ἔ­φτα­σα νὰ ἀ­κουμ­πῶ τὸ μπρά­τσο μου στὸ μπρά­τσο του. Ὅ­σο πε­ρι­μέ­να­με νὰ τὸν φω­νά­ξει κά­ποιος, προ­σπα­θοῦ­σα νὰ συγ­χρο­νί­σω τὴν κί­νη­ση τῶν βλε­φά­ρων μου καὶ τὴν ἀ­να­πνο­ή μου μὲ τὴ δι­κή του. Πα­ρα­τη­ροῦ­σα τὰ δά­χτυ­λα. Τὰ νύ­χια. Τὸ σχῆ­μα τῶν πο­δι­ῶν του, μὲ τὶς ὧ­ρες. Ἔ­ψα­χνα νὰ ἐν­το­πί­σω ση­μά­δια ἀ­πὸ χτυ­πή­μα­τα στὶς κνῆ­μες, συγ­κρί­νον­τάς τες μὲ τὶς δι­κές μου, ποὺ οἱ με­λα­νι­ὲς ἦ­ταν ἐμ­φα­νεῖς καὶ με­τρή­σι­μες. Ὅ­σο πε­ρι­μέ­να­με,  σταυ­ρώ­να­με τὶς πα­λά­μες μας καὶ τὶς ἀ­κουμ­πού­σα­με στὰ λυ­γι­σμέ­να γό­να­τά μας. Ὅ­ταν μυρ­μήγ­κια­ζαν τὶς τι­νά­ζα­με μὲ ἕ­ναν ἀλ­λο­πρό­σαλ­λο βου­βὸ σπα­σμὸ τοῦ κε­φα­λιοῦ καὶ τῶν χε­ρι­ῶν μας. Ἔ­πει­τα μέ­να­με πά­λι ἀ­κί­νη­τοι πνί­γον­τας τὰ γέ­λια μας.

            Ἕ­να πρω­ί, ὁ πα­τέ­ρας του, ὁ θυ­ρω­ρός μας, κα­τέ­βη­κε ἀ­θό­ρυ­βα τὴ σκά­λα ἀ­πὸ πά­νω μας κι ἔ­χω­σε ξαφ­νι­κὰ τὸ κε­φά­λι του μέ­σα στὴν κρυ­ψώ­να μας. Μᾶς τσά­κω­σε νὰ πε­ρι­μέ­νου­με κουρ­νια­σμέ­νοι στὸ σκο­τά­δι, τὸ μπρά­τσο του νὰ ἀ­κουμ­πά­ει τὸ δι­κό μου.  Μᾶς κό­πη­κε ἡ ἀ­νά­σα, ἀλ­λὰ πα­ρα­μεί­να­με ἀ­κί­νη­τοι κι ἑ­νω­μέ­νοι, ὅ­σο τὸν κα­τσά­δια­ζε στὰ σου­α­χί­λι.

            Ἀ­πὸ τὴν ἑ­πό­με­νη μέ­ρα δὲν τὸν ξα­να­έ­φε­ρε μα­ζί του. Λί­γες ἑ­βδο­μά­δες με­τά, ση­κώ­θη­κα ἕ­να πρω­ὶ νω­ρί­τε­ρα ἀ­πὸ τοὺς γο­νεῖς μου καὶ ἤ­πια μο­νο­ρού­φι τὸ ρὸζ σι­ρό­πι γιὰ τὸ βή­χα ποὺ βρῆ­κα στὸ μπά­νιο μας. Στὸ νο­σο­κο­μεῖ­ο μᾶς με­τέ­φε­ρε ὁ θυ­ρω­ρός μας, ὁδη­γών­τας, ὁ τρε­λός,  χω­ρὶς ἄ­δεια τὸ αὐ­το­κί­νη­τό μας.

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Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04

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Πηγή: Πρώτη δημοσίευση.

Δήμητρα Ἰ. Χριστοδούλου (Γι­ο­χά­νεσ­μπουργκ). Με­τα­πτυ­χια­κὴ εἰ­δί­κευ­ση στὴν Πο­λι­τι­στι­κὴ Δι­α­χεί­ρι­ση, Τμῆ­μα Μέ­σων, Ἐ­πι­κοι­νω­νί­ας καὶ Πο­λι­τι­σμοῦ, Σχο­λὴ Δι­ε­θνῶν Σπου­δῶν καὶ Ἐ­πι­κοι­νω­νί­ας τῶν Κοι­νω­νι­κῶν καὶ Πο­λι­τι­κῶν Ἐ­πι­στη­μῶν, Πάν­τει­ο Πα­νε­πι­στή­μιο. Ἀ­πό­φοι­τη Ἑλ­λη­νι­κοῦ Ἀ­νοι­κτοῦ Πα­νε­πι­στη­μί­ου, Τμῆ­μα Ἀν­θρω­πι­στι­κῶν Σπου­δῶν, Εὐ­ρω­πα­ϊ­κὸς Πο­λι­τι­σμός, Ἀ­πό­φοι­τη Ἰ­σπα­νι­κοῦ Πο­λι­τι­σμοῦ, Πα­νε­πι­στή­μιο Menendez Pe­la­yo, San­tan­der, Με­τα­φρά­στρια, Βρε­τα­νι­κὸ Συμ­βού­λιο καὶ Ἰν­στι­τοῦ­το Γλωσ­σο­λο­γί­ας, Λον­δί­νο.

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Costas Varnalis: The Song of the Thrush

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Costas Varnalis

 

The Song of the Thrush

 

02-TaphHRUSH, they called little Anna at the village. And she lived and died a thrush. She was a tiny little girl. Thin, with long legs, weightless, like a bird. She wasn’t walking – she was hopping around and running.

But what is the village we speak of?

         One of those mountainous ones, perched on the mountain slope and they all look alike. Beautiful, but poor and depressing, abandoned by gods and men all the same.

         A glen downhill with its red oleander and a goats’ path, which leads through the pine tree forest to the top of the mountain. It was such an isolated, forsaken village, that it too had forgotten its name.

         It didn’t need one, as if it was a burden.

         But what these villages lack of culture, care and fill, they gain in soul, the soul of the people!

         We are in the last year of the occupation.

         The village we speak of, was on the borders of the two Greeces: the free and the cooperative one. But on the free side.

         A German outpost was trying with their Nazis and “our” evzones to stop freedom from coming down the mountain – to the plain. This was due to the fact that up there at the top mountain the freedom fighters had nested and constituted a “Christmas celebration” for the enemies.

         They had regular contact with the liberation committee of the village. But how? Through the thrush. She was the daughter of a poor widow, whose husband had been killed on the Albanian front. The thrush was eight to ten years old. But full of voice, cleverness and hatred for the enemies. And she was quick and streetsmart – like an adult – and fearless.

         The weather was good at the end of December. Sun and dryness – but biting cold as well.

         The Thrush, along with the other children (the schools were closed for Christmas!) would go out of the village on a clearing and they would start playing there right before the eyes of the Germans and the evzones.

         They would play ball.

         The Thrush, in the heat of the match, would throw the ball as long as she could.

         The ball would roll down to the glen and the Thrush would also roll behind it.

         Not very high up, in the woods, two guerilla soldiers were waiting for her every day at noon. She would hand them the written or oral message of the committee and she would go back panting (so as not to be late) with the ball in hand!

         But this regular walk inside the woods, made the “enemies” suspicious.

         “We must see what’s going on, but we have to do it discreetly – because the little one is very cunning…”.

         But they didn’t need to find a way. The president of the village community, the right hand of the Nazis, offered his last service “to the Country”. He informed them about what was going on.

         When the next day, Christmas Eve it was, the Thrush played her “game” one more time, the Nazis and their Greek companions ran behind the ball, stopped it, and they also stopped the girl and searched her.

         They found a small piece of paper hidden inside her hair.

         “Come here, my little bird,” the president told her. “Who gave you this?”

         “I wrote it myself.”

         “And what do you know of these things?”

         “We all know.”

         “And what other ‘game’ do you know?”

         “All of them. To run. To jump. To sing. To climb up trees, to collect fruit and catch birds in their nests.”

         “Why don’t you climb that olive tree to see what you can do?”

         It took Thrush a minute to do it.

         “You said you know how to sing. Why don’t you sing us a tune? Whatever you like.”

         And Thrush with her clear childish voice started singing.

         “Black is the night in the mountains…” (This song was most common then among the occupied Greeks.)

         Bam! Bam! Bam!

         The Nazis and the evzones aimed at her and killed her like a bird. And the bird was sprawled there, a tiny body with a huge soul. The soul of all Greece.

         Just after midnight, the time when the church bells announced the birth of the Saviour, the guerillas attacked the village – and the Nazis, “our” people and the president paid their cowardly crime with their life.

         And then?

         A year later, “freedom” had already been chased away from earth and sea from the whole of Greece. But every Christmas, just after midnight, the happy bell tolls cannot drown the sad song of the Thrush and the cry of the Fatherland…

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Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04

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Source: Gia tin Xiliakrivi ti Lefteria, Short Stories of the Resistance, Cultural and literary editions, Athens, 1961.

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Costas Varnalis (Pirgos, Bulgaria, 1884-Athens, 1974). Poetry, prose, theatre, essay, critical essay, translation. He studied Philology in Athens. An avid supporter and idealist of the left wing, he was persecuted for his ideas and works. His first book was the poetry collection Kirithres (1905). In 1975, one year after his death, his poetry collection Orgi Laou was published. It was written during the 7 year dictatorship in Greece.

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Translated from the Greek by

Vassilis Manoussakis (Athens, 1972). Poet, short-story writer, translator. He holds a Ph.D. in Con­tem­porary American Poetry. He currently teaches at the Hellenic American University in Athens.

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Ἀντρὲς Νέουμαν (Andrés Neuman): Μυθιστόρημα τρόμου

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Ἀν­τρὲς Νέ­ου­μαν (Andrés Neuman)

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Μυθιστόρημα τρόμου

(Novela de terror)

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Ξύ­πνη­σα φρε­σκο­ξυ­ρι­σμέ­νος.

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 Bonsai-03c-GiaIstologio-04

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Πη­γή: Mini71cuentos, Ἀν­θο­λο­γί­α ἰ­σπα­νό­φω­νου δι­η­γή­μα­τος, Δί­γλωσ­ση ἔκ­δο­ση, Ἐ­πι­λο­γὴ – Εἰ­σα­γω­γὴ – Με­τα­φρα­στικὴ ἐ­πι­μέ­λεια: Κων­σταν­τῖ­νος Πα­λαι­ο­λό­γος, Ἐκ­δό­σεις Μι­χά­λη Σι­δέ­ρη, Ἀ­θή­να 2012.

Ἀν­τρὲς Νέ­ου­μαν (Andrés Neuman) (Μπου­έ­νος Ἅ­ι­ρες τῆς Ἀργεντινῆς, 1977). Ἀ­πὸ τὴ δε­κα­ε­τί­α τοῦ ’80 ζεῖ στὴ Γρα­νά­δα τῆς Ἱ­σπα­νί­ας. Τε­λευ­ταῖ­ο βι­βλί­ο του τὸ μυ­θι­στό­ρη­μα El viajero del siglo (2009). Στὰ ἑλ­λη­νι­κὰ ἔ­χει με­τα­φρα­στεῖ ἡ συλ­λο­γὴ χα­ϊ­κοὺ Μαῦ­ρες στα­γό­νες (μτφ. Νάν­τια Γι­αν­νού­λια, Δῶ­ρα Δη­μη­τρί­ου, Θε­ώ­νη Κάμ­πρα, Κων­σταν­τῖ­νος Πα­λαι­ο­λό­γος, πε­ρι­ο­δι­κὸ Τὸ Δέν­τρο, τεῦ­χος 159-160). Τὸ «Novela de terror» πε­ρι­λαμ­βά­νε­ται στὸ Alumbramiento, Μα­δρί­τη, Páginas de Espuma, 2009.

Με­τά­φρα­ση ἀ­πὸ τὰ ἰ­σπα­νι­κά:

Ἐρ­γα­στή­ριο Με­τά­φρα­σης Μι­κρο­δι­η­γη­μά­των ἀ­πὸ τὰ  ἰ­σπα­νι­κὰ στὰ ἑλ­λη­νι­κὰ ὑ­πὸ τὴν ἐ­πί­βλε­ψη τοῦ Κων­σταν­τί­νου Πα­λαι­ο­λό­γου. Πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ρα βλ. «Ἡ­με­ρο­λό­γιο Κα­τα­στρώ­μα­τος» (Ἡ­με­ρο­μη­νί­α: 16-07-2013).

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