Interview of Andrew Pippos by Freya Bennett // photo by Anna Kucera
In The Transformations, award-winning author Pippos explores love, vulnerability, and the shifting world of Australian journalism with tenderness and insight. I spoke with Pippos about the craft behind his richly layered characters, the interplay of personal and societal crises, and the father-daughter bond at the heart of the novel. From the echoes of Greek mythology to the impermanence of institutions, Pippos reflects on what it means to create fiction that captures both human frailty and resilience.
The book explores vulnerability and masculinity with tenderness. Was this a conscious focus for you while writing, or did it emerge naturally through the story?
There is an unstable mixture of intention and discovery in the process of writing. It’s always my goal to reveal the inner lives of my characters, including their contradictions and their flaws, and the way they understand their history. I’m not especially interested in characters who are pure and perfect towers of strength. I’m not sure people like that exist in the world, and if they do — lucky them. I’m interested in human vulnerability and frailty, and how people carry those qualities, even if they’re barely aware of their problems. In the realm of fiction, a character’s flaws are often the source of narrative. As for tenderness, it would be difficult for me to skewer my main characters, to come at them with utter contempt: my goal is always to understand them, which is another way of saying create them.
Your debut, Lucky’s, received significant acclaim. How did your experience writing that first novel influence your approach to The Transformations?
I do think of The Transformations as being in conversation with Lucky’s, though I’m less confident of how interesting that conversation is to other people. The first difference is that Lucky’s spans almost the entirety of the 20th century, and I did not want to write a novel about that century again. The background of The Transformations would be a defining event of the 21st century: the ongoing phenomenon of digital disruption.
And I was conscious of the fact that both novels are about interlocking crises in the personal lives of their main characters (Lucky and Emily; Cassandra and George). Both novels then play out against the backdrop of a public institution in decline. Behind that decline, in both books, is a transformative social event. In Lucky’s, the Greek-Australian cafe is that institution, and those cafes represent an early phase of multiculturalism in this country. In The Transformations, that institution is the daily newspaper in the time of disruption.
The characters’ public and private selves are portrayed with nuance and empathy. How do you develop such layered characters, and do you see aspects of yourself in any of them?
I see elements of my biography — such as my taste in music — but I can’t find a portrait of myself or anyone else. The character of George Desoulis, for example, doesn’t possess the most fundamental aspects of my personality (he’s not a novelist, for one thing). When I have given him some details of my life, I’ve done so because it helped me better understand his character, and not because I wanted to see myself in fiction. If there is an agent that resembles me in The Transformations, it’s probably the sensibility of the third-person narrator.
The father-daughter relationship in your novel feels incredibly nuanced and heartfelt. What inspired you to explore this particular bond?
The primary plotline of the novel is the love story between George and Cassandra. Then we have two subplots: one about the decline of The National newspaper, and the other is about George’s 15-year-old daughter, Elektra. I did intend to play with the Elektra myth in this novel, as Lucky’s did with the Achilles myth. In this respect, I probably can’t help myself: my imagination was formed by Greek mythology, and I still see the echoes of myth in the present day.
My understanding of the Elektra myth is that it’s about what happens when a daughter rejects her mother and sides with her father. I wanted to write about a parent-child relationship that undergoes a peculiar transformation when Elektra of Sydney is a teenager and, for good reason, attempts to decouple herself from her problematic mother. With George and his daughter, I described them both becoming the people they were always meant to be: Elektra is savvy enough to know that a good family can transform each other in this way.
Were any aspects of George and his daughter drawn from your own experiences or observations, or were they entirely imagined?
Even if a novelist attempts to write closely to themselves — or to someone they know — the introduction of those details into a fictional space will likely turn them into constructions that will then require the author to use pure imagination in order to make such details work on the page. It’s a strange thing to do with your time. It’s always an exercise in imagination. In any case, Elektra is entirely fictional and she was also the easiest character to write. I don’t have a teenage daughter, but I’m certain I will one day.
If you could give readers one insight into what you hope they take away from George and his daughter’s relationship, what would it be?
Love is what makes George a great parent. He and Elektra take such delight in each other — some of their conversations made me laugh. They belong together, as father and daughter.
If you could step into the world of The Transformations for a day, whose perspective would you most like to experience?
Bruce Lattimore, founder of The National newspaper. Not because he’s rich, but because he’s the oldest character in the novel and I’m curious to know what it’s like to spend that long on the planet. He’s in reasonably good shape, up to a point.
Finally, what do you hope readers take away from The Transformations, and is there a lasting feeling or question you hope stays with them?
I hope they see the imperfection of the characters in this world — also the kindness and courage and beauty.
