Although I served as an altar boy until I was fourteen – usually altar boys retire earlier – I admit that I am not driven by any religious feeling. Even at the time when I was holding the censer, I had the sense that I was participating in a different kind of school play, clearly less entertaining than the traditional fustanella performances (where various mishaps, such as tearing the cotton tights, almost always added a cheerful note). No matter how deeply I dig into my memory, I do not recall a single Sunday – on other days, fortunately, I was off duty – when I felt that I was communicating or close to communicating with the Divine. I was – and remain – a metaphysical blockhead. The only consolation is the idea that I am not a species on the verge of extinction. Take a look around churches and catechism classes, and you will find many like me. They stand out from afar. They yawn, doodle little shadow puppets. They silently curse their parents for not sending them to the scouts. Lost souls. Finished.

I had not read the four Gospels back then. When I began to read systematically – in my adolescence – more rationalistic gospels were in fashion. Certainly more poorly written. The worst writer among the trendy evangelists was undoubtedly Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov. He made a career as Lenin. He wrote incessantly, at the slightest provocation, and his style – terse, nervous, direct – resembled an ophthalmologist or orthopedist hastily filling out your medical booklet while already thinking about the next patient. But in this way, he also conveyed the character of urgency – you thought, the revolution is at the gates, turning soon from Patission Street, climbing Stadiou, heading towards Syntagma… Lenin was extremely popular among us, the repentant altar boys, who were already fed up with the vague proclamations about the Second Coming.