THE EDIFICATION OF CHILDREN

When I was young, some of the readings that we were periodically assigned at Greek School, were penned by a mysterious figure who would always begin with the endearment «Αγαπητοί μου» and end with the valediction: “I kiss you, Phaedon.”

In between the greetings, Phaedon would, in letter form, develop fascinating and deeply enthralling narratives about issues from the most complex to the most trivial, in a tone so fresh and familiar, as to make you believe that he had known you all his life. The subject matter had such immediacy and relevance that when I was told that the author, Grigoris Xenopoulos was born one hundred and ten years before I and died a year after my father was born, and that the letters were published in a periodical for children entitled “The Edification of Children” (Η Διάπλασις των Παίδων), between 1896 to 1948, I simply could not believe it.

Over the Christmas holidays, I managed to track down a compendium of some of the author’s favourite letters, published by him after the periodical ceased its circulation. Opening its yellowed pages I was immediately transported back to my childhood, guided by the same timeless, friendly voice. What immediately became apparent was how the author a noted novelist, playwright and literary critic presupposed neither knowledge, nor class status among his readers. He wrote without condescension, eschewing a preachy or didactic tone and instead speaking directly to his young readers and taking them from the outset into his confidence. Writing originally in the early editions in an accessible form of katharevousa, this champion of Demotic Greek switched to the common tongue as early as the first decade of the twentieth century, ensuring that his young readers would understand him and appreciate his message as effortlessly as possible.

I marvel at how Phaedon was able to embrace overarching themes by providing his readers with specific examples from their daily lives. In one of his early letters, he treats with the concept of modernisation by writing about the replacement of the steam train from Athens to Piraeus with an electric model. Outlining the benefits in terms of speed, ease of use and efficiency, he assures his readers that progress is inevitable and it is inexorable. However, he is also sensitive to the romantic hold that the old has over the new. Much of his missive is devoted to the nostalgia that impedes progress. Rather than deriding it however, he encourages his readers to understand, reflect upon and cherish the past, all the while understanding the importance of change.

Through such reflections, we watch Athens, where the author resided, transform from a small provincial town, into a bustling metropolis. We join with him in marvelling as he hears the sound of the first aeroplane fly over the capital and laugh with him as he recounts how the pilot’s mother exclaimed when asked her thoughts about her son’s exploits: “I have given birth to an eagle instead of a son.” Similarly, we sympathise with him as he laments the broadening of Vasilissis Amalias Avenue, which while necessary, for crossing it in the nineteen twenties was to put your life at risk, involved the cutting down of a number of beautiful trees that used to line it. He waxes enthusiastically about the introduction of cars to Athens, all the while predicting the inevitable traffic jams that would, years after his death, come to paralyse the city. In like fashion, he predicts the expansion of Athens beyond the city centre to its present extent and its merging with Piraeus, even as he sadly describes the orgy of construction and development that has criminally blocked his view of the Acropolis. Most tellingly, he enthusiastically describes the trend of young Athenians sporting tsarouhia as a form of jewellery in celebration of the Greek army’s early success in the Italians in 1940 and confides, in 1942, how he has come to appreciate the humble walnut, since bread is not available.

On occasion, Phaedon becomes not only the child’s confidant, but also a trust friend who can console them in their pain. One of the letters is inspired by a communication from a reader who lives abroad and describes to the author how empty and lonely her first Easter is, away from her country. Rather than indulge in platitudes or empty phrases, Phaedon feels her pain keenly, confiding in her and the rest of the community of readers how lonely he felt when he left his home and family in Zakynthos in order to study in Athens. He describes the sense of excitement he could feel from those around him during holidays and Feast Days and how bereft of meaning these days had for him, in his solitude and misery. From that point, he proceeds to assure his overseas interlocutor that things will get better, that one always finds meaning in the environment in which they live, that pain can be compartmentalised and contextualised, describing how his mother back in Zakynthos would deal with her son’s absence by imagining he was sleeping in the next room.

Perhaps the most heart-rending of Phaedon’s letters concerns the death of his nonagenarian mother. He does not try to hide his grief, but rather describes the ways in which she played an intrinsic role in the formation of his character. In particular, he focuses on two aspects of her character which he highlights as important: her egalitarian nature, for according to him, she was able to relate to and form lasting relationships with members of Zakynthos’ genteel society as well as the impoverished and the vulnerable on equal terms, and her education, for she was a voracious and sensitive reader and this, in her son’s opinion shaped her manners and her generous world-view and sense of mission. In doing so, he invites his readers to consider the contribution of their parents to their own lives while gently reminding them that they won’t have them forever. It is a humble, unassuming but utterly profound letter that avoids hysteria and melodrama and yet does not fail to move the reader, as is his penultimate piece, which describes how he his house, library and archive has been destroyed during the Dekemvriana, the first act of the Greek Civil War.

The letters that try to place Greek historical events in context are absorbing. In a precursor to the Kennedy moment, Phaedon describes the jubilation of the Athenians upon hearing the news of the liberation of Ioannina in 1913, foreseeing that in years to come, everyone will remember exactly where they were when they first heard the news. Sometimes, he gets it wrong. His 1919 letter on the “Megali Idea,” presents the expansion of Greece’s borders to encompass historic motherlands as inevitable and a historical right, unable to foresee how this would end in catastrophe only a few years later.

By far however, his most endearing epistles are those which deal with childhood and the process of growing up. Whether it is describing his childhood in Zakynthos and sitting on a raisin-heap in the evening in order to view the Summer night sky, or describing his youthful addiction to adventure novels only to exhort his readers to transcend the need for cheap thrills and to embrace the reading of proper literature, as difficult as this may seem, discussing maturity or the absence thereof in children with the reassurance that while some children may seem to be more mature than others, they are still children and the idea of childhood must be cherished, or in a treatise about marks and school reports, attempting to convince children that hard work and doing one’s best are their own reward, an endeavour that should unite all children of all colours and creeds throughout the world, or indeed, encouraging children to write poetry that comes from their heart and reflects their true emotions and experiences rather than those they think adults would approve of, Phaedon ever remains a non-judgmental, intimate confidant and guide for all ages.

I am not sure whether another Phaedon has ever existed within the Greek zeitgeist. We have certainly never had one here in Australia and that is a great pity. I look back at the organised community of my childhood and marvel not just at how few events were targeted towards children or designed to include children but also at how even today, the tendency to treat children as gargoyles at pointless wreath laying ceremonies inculcated in them the conviction that to be Greek is to suffer insipid boredom, rather than be inspired by the vibrancy of our culture. I wish that we had a Phaedon to feel as we have felt, to inspire us with his immense love of children and to create within us a sense of community and responsibility while at the same time, introducing us to the mysteries of Hellenism. But then again, given how timeless, how transcendent he is, maybe just one is all we need, provided we have the language skills to read him, for he remains criminally untranslated.

Sometimes, when I receive letters from readers telling me how they have grown up reading the Diatribe, for I am that old, I wonder how Phaedon would have felt, receiving letters from Greek children all around the world and I imagine him writing back to all of us that we are all one large family, united within the broad, however dysfunctional embrace of Hellenism and that embrace, just like the writings of the great man himself, endures the ravages of time and is as omnipresent as we would require it to be. And he would sign off, as ever with a kiss.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 18 January 2025