It is not only the manner in which he tells in an ironic manner, whether relaxed or private, but it is precisely his own style, that is, the satirical motifs that operate on the basis of his true identity, very serious stories–very serious notions that spring from the deep problems of Our Time Has Come. Konstantinos Polis, in his collection of short stories published in December 2022 and already in its second edition, speaks from a specific situation of balance. This situation, which is the task of every writer to know which is the same, clearly separates the “author” from the “narrator”. The people and situations described in this book are present to the extent that the “narrator” can identify them. He himself, as the “author”, as the real person of the “polish”, knows the issues: he does not recognize them. He deals with them daily and deeply. The ‘narrator’, however, is almost virginal, amazed at the world’s continuing wonders. A constantly “new” world that he discovers in his essence at any moment, forever and ever.
to Melfkas maki
Let’s see how he does it at the beginning of the short story “A Pound of His Flesh” (pg. 85):
He was not a beginner. It’s been four years since he bought a “smart cell phone”. Except that instead of calming down like he used to, he became more and more restless. He couldn’t comprehend that there were such trivial notices. Every time one of them rings, it gets palpitations. Everything in our time has an air of drama and urgency, but they think we don’t believe them. One wouldn’t think that there is somewhere, someone taking all that much cash.
It made more sense with news media updates. He downloaded the BBC app to his mobile phone only to seriously update. This way, there was absolutely no way for him to deliver any serious news to dooku. Now tell me, what does he care about the earthquake in Jakarta? does he care He doesn’t care, but that’s the way it is with these apps. You care – you don’t care, the bell is ringing.
And I’m not talking about error, which is human error. Like when the BBC sent out a notice that the next episode of Game of Thrones had no nudity. This can happen to anyone and I think it has happened to all of us at least once. I’m talking about real news of the “Jakarta” type.
[…]
Suppose others were patient – which they were not. But it was also very hard for him, because he was constantly thinking about the bad: is it a taxi’s notice, some overdue debt? If uncle dies? Or worse, a favorite artist?
The “narrator” is fully a mediating consciousness between the subjective self-expression of the hero and that receptive to the reader as a “broad” objective audience. It’s not about readability, traffic, analytics, algorithms, and echo chambers. These belong to the realm of the Poles writer, and certainly transcend the realm of the Poles journalist and analyst. They know the technological and social background of our history. Among the broken and huddled man is the spearhead of the army of advertisers, managers and other neuropsychologists who congregate every day in an eco-friendly office in Silicon Valley to find ways to make his addiction even crazier. But we will never know. Because the narrator is on this side. Not next to us, but certainly close enough. It is a disguised entity that monitors and in some cases even comments on its job. Let’s look at this in “Lame Ant” (pg. 49):
[…] Giannis prided himself on having a “perfect ear”. From the outside it didn’t look like anything special. An ear like any other ear. (And another from the exact opposite side of the head). He can put his foot on the asphalt and see what note is being produced. Do you have some? How often do I need it in a practice or recording session?
But it is not possible for Riptes to get around on skis. And since there is no God, fate has taken upon itself to punish this terrible disharmony. So he fell into a puddle and fell on the asphalt. In the fall he broke his collarbone and ribs, so he had to stay at home for a while.
And here our story begins. Which actually started a while ago, but just to introduce the character. Now the plot begins.
The narrator comments on the method of narration. It is a game of disguises and symbols unknown to Polis. It is, in essence, the same thing as that impeccable suit and tie of the unwavering Anchorman with which he meddles in the field of verbal legitimacy of The Press Project’s legendary reviews, where, once again, the narrator is both a parody and a critic of the sheer literalness of his image. And his word.
An atmosphere of underground rafting permeates and complements the panoramic landscape of Julia. Georgakis was not only from the text of “Sudden optimism” (p. 60), “This filthy child,” “Little bunny,” “The man at the door of Auschwitz was cutting his hair, plucking his teeth, and saying, ‘Hey, enjoy your bath,’ to whoever enters the crematorium.” The short story “Zityana” (p. 83) reveals this lofty intention in all its power:
The beggar was on her knees, her ass crooked, and her hand outstretched. If she wasn’t tall, dressed in black and naked, you could say that this is a very sensual pose. With a penchant for the quirky humor that characterized him, he sought after them and pretended to jump on them. He’s positioned like a porn star, rocking his pelvis back and forth and laughing at his friends. Then he got up and took out his cock and urinated on her while she was crying. He was laughing and shouting to his friends that he would be able to write his name in urine if this bitch would just stay still for a while. The old woman was trying to run away, but he was happily holding her [sic] down with the foot.
The narrative here is relentlessly personal. He not only gives us in direct transmission the hero’s impression of himself from his own point of view (“thanks to his penchant for the strange humor that distinguished him”, and not “which he thinks characterizes him” or something like that), but also skillfully introduces the most subtle, deep sadism and pathos of the imagination ( “He was happily squeezing it…”) as she appears in the moment of fantasy. As, yeah, that’s a fantasy:
The truth is, he wasn’t very daring. Yes, he was thinking of all this, because of his bold beggar attitude, but he did nothing. He just got over it. He came back, gave her 50 euros and continued on his way to work.
The heroes of Konstantinos Polis are very lucky (and with all of them). They do not stand naked before the reader with all their weaknesses and pernicious diseases. They’re stuck to a totally honest degree: at the moment of final revelation, where they vainly pay 50 euros to be readmitted to the Club of Mankind, they stand there alone, miserable and desolate, without the “friends” they momentarily imagined them to be. on their side. Without us all. And they, at that critical moment, are merciful and deeply human.
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