In an older novel, I ironized the past, comparing it with a "dead but pretentious" man. As a closed time, I have no admiration for him. I have no respect for the deeds done, which I cant't repairs. But "translating" them into the cultural code of the present may offer delights. Not the past I'm interested in, but how it came to us. The journey of a deeds offers exactly those adventures that a writer needs. One like me. That is why, in my novel "The Ghost in the Mill", I pleaded for the thesis that a man can only be judged in the context of his historical time. If we will get him out of there, he becomes just a toy of the present.