I understand that Sofronis Sofroniou's Crude Iron (Antipodes, 2017) is unlike any other novel written in Greek and that assigning Crude Iron under any recognisable literary genre would be quite a daunting task. To wit, classifying it as a work of science fiction does little to help the reader form any useful expectations about the book. Actually, the said prospective reader can hardly be warned about what to expect before opening the book, and what follows here does not aim towards tampering with this uncertainty. The story is predicated of a daring yet perfectly articulate premise: after death, all—or perhaps some—of us are taken to another planet where we experience Little Life, a physical postmortem life spanning exactly ten years. The book follows part of a New York chess player's trajectory in Little Life after he meets a violent death in 1948. I shall leave the rest to the reader. So, what makes Crude Iron so special? A concise answer would be threefold: its style, its use of intertextuality and the breadth of its scope. First of all it is worth noting that the book is written in an unpretentious manner, eschewing syntactic acrobatics and free of sophisticated verbiage. It may be read as what one might call a "regular story", which flows effortlessly. The otherworldly but deceitfully quotidian location in which the plot unfolds, a planet not unlike Earth where the Earth's deceased have an additional term of ten years to live, is described in a sober and unassuming manner, like one would talk of their own neighbourhood. At the same time the narration of the otherworldly events that occur in the above surroundings is straightforward, too; hence the style never becomes contrived or densely ornamental, and the story paces as if it were about an excursion or a weekend spent in a nearby town. In sum, both the description and the narration are nonchalant, free from acrobatics and pretence, while Sofroniou's prose stays clear of linguistic or encyclopaedic posing. This simplicity is definitely deceitful. Better said, it is the product of detailed and arduous artifice. The book owes part of its charm to the fact that the Little Life it describes is not rendered as a magical land, as is the case in Alice in Wonderland or The Wizard of Oz. Neither is it a utopian dreamland nor an Orwellian or Huxleyan dystopia, nor even an all-too-familiar allegorical 'elsewhere' – as is often the case in science fiction. Whether describing inhospitable jungles, flatlands sprouting giant statues or inconceivable architectures, whether telling of setting ablaze innumerable sheets on clothes lines, or speaking of cunnilingus under gunpoint and sudden disappearances, the book maintains an uninterrupted matter-of-fact tone. Irrespective of the improbable or uncanny events that take place there, the planet of Little Life is just another ordinary place, as are for instance the East Coast of US or Central Greece. The simplicity and accessibility of the text, albeit emerging through a process that ultimately aims to defamiliarize, are reminiscent of Bolaño's 2666. Having said that, the fineness of Sofroniou's textual filigree technique and its overall eloquence are also brought out on the intertextual level. Of course contemporary literature is often manifestly intertextual and sometimes blatantly so, unabashedly exposing its intertexts. Hence, expansive works of fiction written in the manner of Joyce's Ulysses are common in today's prose writing. In these texts a number of voices, narrators, and narrative foci coexist while the texts themselves are often compiled of fragments belonging to a variety of genres (letters, diaries, press cuttings, 'ordinary' narratives, etc.), and narrative conventions are often broken. Indeed, some of these features are encountered in The Progenitors, Sofroniou's kaleidoscopic and award-winning debut work of fiction (The Progenitors, Rodakio, 2015). However, Crude Iron moves beyond this method, which we often call postmodern despite the fact that it is deeply rooted in modernism. Crude Iron is a coherent and cohesive text although it contains some metadiegetic narratives; it is a text in which intertexts are not just integrated but, on the contrary, they are set in distinct threads to be weaved together with those of other intertexts. Nevertheless following the story requires no familiarity with these intertexts: the heroine Bonadea, for instance, alludes to Musil's The Man Without Qualities but nothing is lost to the reader who is unknowing of this or who fails to recognize it. Generally, instead of using excerpts, bits and pieces, or even threads from other texts to weave his own text—a text that would proclaim its textuality, as per the 'postmodern' custom —Sofroniou tends to use threads and allusions to assemble an entire world in which the reader is led to believe that the story is casually happening. Occasionally, one recognises movie scenes, literary themes, or allusions, yet Sofroniou lets none of the above distract the reader from the story—a peculiar adventure told as if it were an excursion or a weekend getaway in a nearby city. The laborious textual filigree involved in the composition of the novel is by no means limited to intertextual references and allusions or to the inclusion of imagery and situations contributing to the construction of a world, namely the world of Little Life with its 53 continents, its geographies, and its history. To wit, the work consists of three parts and by the end of the first part, which I almost read at one fell swoop, I still hadn't figured out exactly what was going on. In fact, I never did fully figure out what is going on in Sofroniou's novel. Yet, the text gradually revealed itself to me: it revealed its brain-like structure, viz. its complexity and exceptionally numerous synapses on the microscopic level, which are gradually organised so as to form an organ with a far more evident structure on a macroscopic level. I am unaware of anything like Crude Iron ever having been written in the Greek language. In English one could perhaps think of de Lillo and
Pynchon, but in their oeuvre—especially Pynchon's—the reader keeps stumbling upon the hardness and the tortuous density of the text. If I must compare Crude Iron with a work of fiction, the first and fifth parts of 2666 come to mind, as well as Aris Alexandrou's Mission Box, possibly the greatest Greek novel of the 20th century. Affinities with Alexandrou's Mission Box are nevertheless also to be found in the third factor that makes Crude Iron both special and important: the actual breadth of its scope. Just like in the case of Mission Box, the topic of Crude Iron is of universal relevance and the book discusses it in a way that enables ideas and interpretations to beam out in a prismatic fashion. Let me elaborate on this. Modern Greek literature suffers from parochialism. Greek novels mainly deal with history and the Modern Greek identity, when they do not concern themselves with abstract genealogies, with the quest for an elusive collective uniqueness, or with the vindication of this or the other tradition. Surely, as
Milan Kundera points out in his Rideau, parochialism is one's inability, or reluctance, to place their culture (their 'civilisation' or their 'tradition') within a broader context. This is the reason why the great or not so great American novels of the 20th and of the 21th century, sometimes obsessed with baseball and trite aspects of American TV culture, sometimes detailing life in 6 or 7 Manhattan blocks or in some Midwestern town lost in the cornfields, hardly reek of parochialism: dealing with the very local, with matters of After all bland cosmopolitanism has never been of any true consequence. This is precisely where the problem with most of Modern Greek prose lies: tradition and what is local and particular are not implements shedding light on what is universal or essential, which would render them valuable, but are used to discuss the purported unbroken historical continuity of a nation, a small group of people. In The Progenitors Sofroniou attempted to place the small world of Cyprus and the rather larger world of New York in a broader context. In Crude Iron he achieves this by inserting multiple localities and many identities, all unique and distinct from one another. Fortunately, this does not lead to some sort of a multicultural pandemonium, precisely because on the planet of Little Life all identities and localities are experienced through the condition of migration or of remembrance. Meanwhile, Little Life is far more than the destination of migration; it is also that of postmortem exile. In Crude Iron people's identities and localities are nothing more than mere recollections of life before death. Over the course of the imperfect and limited span of Little Life these are recalled with varying degrees of reliability. Finally, all localities and identities in the novel are brought together under the small umbrella of Western Civilization: its failures, obsessions, and crimes; they are also sheltered under the broader umbrella of the human brain and of the human mind, the latter either created or hosted by this tree-like shaped organ. In this sense, it is no coincidence that in one of the continents of Little Life a huge mechanical brain is buried upside-down in the ground. In a nutshell, Crude Iron is one of the most important Greek novels the 21st century has given us in its 18 years.