Mary Kontzoglou was born in Thessaloniki and studied Political Science at Panteion University. She has worked in Communication roles for major Greek companies. Her novels are published by METAICHMIO Publications and include: The Honey of the Sea (2008), Walk with Your Angel (2009), the trilogy The Meridians of Life (2011), the trilogy The Old Silver (2014), The Enchanted (2017), the two-volume Rust and Gold (2020), the short story collection Hours of Shared Concern (2021), the bibliophile feel-good novel One Night at the Bookshop (2022), and her most recent two-volume work From Sun to Sun.

Your latest writing venture, the two-volume novel Από ήλιο σε ήλιο (From Sun to Sun), was recently published by METAICHMIO Publications. Could you tell us a few words about the book?

Τhe two-volume novel From Sun to Sun was written when I first laid eyes on Serifos, while sailing for vacation to Sifnos.  What I saw filled me with awe – as if the island itself had something to tell me. I was compelled to learn more, searching online. I had never been there before; it had never crossed my mind as a holiday destination.  

As I read more about Serifos online, I soon came across the pivotal event of the 1916 miners’ strike — the most significant historical moment in the island’s past. I had known nothing about it, and I felt a sense of relief when I realized that this chapter of history remains largely unknown to most, despite its enormous importance for miners across Greece. It was this strike that won workers the right to an eight-hour shift inside the tunnels. Until then, they were literally working… from sun to sun. And when I read what the women of Serifos did during the strike, I said to myself: “this is a story I must write”.

As part of my research, I visited the island, I gathered stories from the locals, descendants of the miners, and immersed myself in the culture and customs of the people, the beauty of the landscape, the social fabric, the harsh reality of mine labor, and the threads of Greek mythology that still run through the place.

 As a lover of mythology, I vividly remembered the many references to Serifos: the myth of Danae and Perseus, the tale of Perseus and Andromeda, his heroic slaying of Medusa, and even Odysseus blinding the Cyclops Polyphemus on his journey home from Troy. It was then that I decided to weave my story alongside mythology. That’s how I began writing the novel — with the 1916 miners’ strike at its heart.

The journey of writing this novel was, for me, truly overwhelming. Through the lives of my characters — both fictional and real — such as the Gromann overseers, father and son, and the unionist Konstantinos Speras, who organized the strike, I sought to portray the spirit of Serifos: the joys and hardships of ordinary people, interwoven with a mythological past, social stratification, the surrounding environment and the role of women. And, above all, the harsh labor inside the mining tunnels. The Gromanns created a system of near-slavery, marked by exploitation, injustice, and death — conditions that eventually led to the strike and, in a way, to the workers’ vindication.

Of course, love has its own share in the novel; in a place as mysterious and imposing as Serifos, it can only be overwhelming.

How does literature converse with history in your work? Does literature constitute the binding thread between the History of a place and the various micro-stories of its inhabitants?

I believe this wholeheartedly. Respect for history is essential along with deep knowledge and hard work. And that work extends far beyond historical research: it includes sociology, language, architecture, and much more. In my view, the role of historical fiction is not to teach or remind us of history. Rather, it is a way to approach historical events from a different angle — to reveal them in all their complexity and nuance. Above all, it allows us to explore the psychological impact of these events on ordinary people.

As a writer, I am not drawn to major historical events—the global, the much-discussed. What captivates me are the smaller stories, which may not have altered the course of history, but quietly shaped the lives of ordinary people. In my novel Τhe Bewitched, I recount the almost forgotten tale of the abduction of a Roman monument from Thessaloniki in 1863. It was an act the city’s Christian, Jewish, and Muslim residents all tried, in vain, to prevent. I take great joy in knowing that it was through my book that Greece came to know this story.

Your literary heroes are struggling to survive in an unjust world, fighting for social justice. Do they succeed in the end and at what cost?  

In my two-volume novel From Sun to Sun, the characters live through a kind of labor-driven Dark Age. It is only natural that they long for what should be taken for granted. The mining administration was ruthless, openly hostile to workers’ rights. Safety measures were virtually nonexistent. Over the roughly fifty years of Gromann rule, half the male population of Serifos either died or was rendered unfit for work. Workers were paid insultingly low wages. The company denied any responsibility for the countless deaths and injuries from mining accidents, and even abused the Mutual Aid Fund that the workers themselves had created to support those left unable to work.

With the Serifos strike, miners across Greece’s mining regions won the eight-hour workday — a monumental victory for the time. But the cost was devastating. The workers paid with their lives: five were killed, and many more faced long years in prison.

I write because I love language. Writing is a hymn to it”. How crucial is the role of language in depicting the multidimensional character of a place and a historical era?

Language is religion, passion, life itself, and writing is the hymn that weaves them together. As a reader, I place great importance on writing. The plot of a book may captivate me or not, for each soul metabolizes a story differently. Yet linguistic quality remains non-negotiable. In historical fiction, language must harmonize with the era it seeks to evoke. We all know that language evolves and transforms over time; words, expressions, idiom must all belong to the vernacular of that very age.

For me, complex characters are easier to portray. It is the simple, the naïve ones, whom I wrestle with most—those who must convey an entire world through a single act or just a few words. Perhaps without even realizing it themselves.

Would you agree with those who argue that Greek writers have a preference for short form and that short story collections have outweighed novels and longer narratives? 

I do not believe this is the case in our country, though I lack concrete evidence to support my view. I love the short form—despite having published only one collection of short stories, I read many novellas and countless short stories. The short form is a different art altogether; it is a shot for literature, while the novel is a long drink.

From your first novel Το Μέλι το Θαλασσινό [Τhe honey of the sea] (2008) till today, almost twenty years later, what has changed and what has remained the same in your writings? Are there recurrent points of reference in your books?

My writing has changed; I believe I have become more concise. Yet, overall, I remain exuberant—such is my nature. Unchanged are the love and spontaneity with which I approach my stories, for if I do not fall in love with the subject, I do not write it. And in love, spontaneity is essential.

Recurring themes in my work centre on the place of women in society, whether in contemporary novels and short stories or in historical settings. I am drawn to the woman as a social being—the daily struggles for equality on one hand, and the constant battle to break free from the mold society has cast for us. I believe this subject will continue to engage me.

But to forestall any assumptions: of all the characters I have created thus far, my favorite remains a man.

*Interview by Athina Rossoglou

INTRO PHOTO © Meni Seiridou

TAGS: LITERATURE & BOOKS | READING GREECE