I started out three decades ago, admiring old manuscripts' pictures; in books, encyclopedias, magazines, anywhere… I collected pieces of paper with graphic features, a sui generis collection of human diversity. At that time, computers did not exist or were falling short from our knowledge and capacities. Nevertheless, in admiring byzantine calligraphy, I found myself tangled in exploring this incredibly mysterious world; this aesthetically endless graphic richness, which marked the path of enthusiasm and love for the exquisite art of copiers on one hand, and the letter form itself on the other. Even though the byzantine typeset was almost completely (and yet unjustly) associated with the copying of ecclesiastic texts, we must admit the obvious: its evolution into extremely highly, almost unthinkable levels of aesthetic integrity, originality and functionality. The lack of technical means forced copiers to find solutions, many of which are considered aesthetically and technically unsurpassable even to this day. The harmonious union of text and initial caps, decorative elements and miniature painting was depicted in samples of global radiance, which even today, when it is so simple for everyone to typeset a text, cannot be found easily! Unfortunately, technological evolution seems to have played a decisive role in the simplification of typesetting and printing aesthetics in general.

It is true that a virtually erotic relationship has developed between manuscript texts and the Greek language, with its rough and smooth breathings, its circumflexes and its adscripts, the dative and of course the unforgettable final /ν/, all of which have been swept away by the drift of simplification.
  An established spelling "where every omega, every upsilon, every acute and every adscript is but a creek, a down-slope, the vertical side of a rock on the curve of a boat's stern, undulating vineyards, churches' lintels, bits of white and red, here and there, from pigeon-coops and pots of cranesbills", as Odysseas Elytis has wisely pointed out. After all, how could an eminently poetic action, such as that of writing and copying, not fit the language that vested some of the greatest treasures of world literature? It is true! One could not conceive a language and writing so simplified, so pitifully deprived of its cosmopolitan past and spirituality. For, in preserving our "precious spelling", we preserve "the profound force of analogies that connects the petty with the grand or the crucial with the insignificant, and forms under the shredded surface of the phenomena a more solid terrain for my foot – I almost said my soul – to step on" (O. Elytis).

Nevertheless, I believe that there is still room for a little poetry, a few touches of cosmopolitanism, as long as man will need what we call Writing. After all, we must not forget that it is technology, which we have burdened with so many "sins", that allows us today the technical possibility of getting a bit closer – as much as possible – to the writing style of old copiers and gives us the opportunity to view texts from the perspective of a different aesthetic orientation.

Constantine F. Siskakis