Two aspects of Kazantzakis’ thought, which have been most misrepresented in Greece, should receive clarification here The first is his attitude toward despair. Readers are often so impressed, so overwhelmed by his insistence that man must gaze open-eyed and without illusion on the dark Abyss which eventually must swallow all, that he has been termed an anarchist and a nihilist, whereas his entire life and thought emphasized the exact contrary. He insists, simply, that it is precisely on this abyss that man must erect the structure of his life and work; that the great affirmation of life has meaning and value only when it accepts and rises above the great negation; that such is the double vision necessary to a realistic apprehension of life. In a letter to a critic who had written of him as the completely despairing man, Kazantzakis answered, “Only beyond absolute despair is the door of absolute hope found. Alas to that man who cannot mount the final dreadful step which rises above absolute despair; such a man is necessarily incurably despairing. Only that other man who can mount that step can know what is meant by impregnable joy and immortality.” In man’s world, “the success or defeat of the spirit depends on man himself, and the upward path is one of unceasing, ruthless, and bloody strife. To the man who erects his home on the Abyss, this challenge does not lead to despair or suicide but to acceptance of necessity in joy, to laughter on the highest peaks of existence, and finally to a creative “play” with tragic elements in an ecstasy of joy which is the chief characteristic of Kazantzakis’ style, and is especially embodied in the divertissement of Book XVII. His laughter, therefore, is not the ironic wit or subtle interplay of mind of our modern metaphysical poets, but has affinities rather to the saeva indignatio of that Jonathan Swift who wrote A Modest Proposal, and to the broader bite of an Aristophanes or a Rabelais.
The second point to be elucidated is Kazantzakis’ use of the word “God.” God, for him, is identical with the élan vital, the onrushing force throughout all of creation which strives for purer and more rarefied freedom. He prefers this appellation because it has become saturated and battered with man’s historical endeavor, ever since his dim origins, to struggle above his atavistic and bestial nature. In the first half of the Odyssey, God is apprehended as an anthropomorphic being, yet he is not projected as a concrete object, thing, person or goal toward which man proceeds, as in much of Christian theology, but as concomitant and identical with man himself, as part of the struggling spirit in all nature which has found, thus far, its purest co-worker in man, and which now strives to find an even purer embodiment, perhaps even its own immortality. After the destruction of his Ideal City in Book XVI, Odysseus turns away, more and more, from attempts to free the struggling divine spirit within him, abandons the last hope of an Elysium, Paradise, or divine Justice whether on earth or the hereafter, and concerns himself more and more with the outer world, with the ever-spiraling evolutionary process upward of the universe from inorganic matter, from the emergence of organic matter and its highest development in man, to the continuous disappearance of every individual, and even of species, as the élan vital finds other modes of expression. “This unbelievable man has a terrifying impulse toward creation,” Kazantzakis wrote, “until that moment when an earthquake crumbles to its foundation the city he had built . . . From then on his fall begins, a fall which he does nothing to stop.” Yet it is this fall, as has often been remarked of Adam and Eve’s fall from grace in the Garden of Eden, that leads to the true rise of Odysseus toward his full stature.
In the first half of the poem, God is Odysseus’ constant companion, locked within his body, crying to be released; in the second half of the poem, Death is the very flesh and bones of Odysseus himself, tagging always at his heels like his shadow or faithful dog, the mirror-image of his own identity. In the first half of the poem, when Odysseus is purely a man of action, his struggles are deeply spiritual in an anguished effort to purify his vision of God; in the second half of the poem, after Odysseus sinks into an intuitive contemplation, he no longer seeks God, or the Spirit, but turns his attention outward, to the senses, to earth, to the Spirit’s humanistic manifestations in various representative types of man. “After the catastrophe,” writes Dr. Stanford, “he abandons the cult of doing for the cult of being. . . . He now seeks self-knowledge and self-improvement in asceticism and in the exploration of personal relationships with people who are also seekers after the inner secret of being and nonbeing.” He now becomes the Lone Man. It is when he turns ascetic that Odysseus becomes most materialistic.
In the complete acceptance of nature and its unmoral laws, all dualisms are resolved in a dynamic monism as equally real aspects of the same thing. Evolution means not merely change or increased complexity, but an always upward movement toward higher, more valued forms. Man is a creature in nature which, for the first time, by the exercise of a unique consciousness, purpose, mind, will, and choice, can intervene purposefully in a process which, of its own accord, though with an infinite indifference, unwinds toward more and more perfectibility. Man’s mind, his will and powers of choice, though limited and conditioned by the materials through which they manifest themselves, by his heritage and his environment, are part of that “blind,” seemingly purposeless creative impulse toward perfectibility. If such value-judgments are purposeless for Nature, they are nevertheless purposeful for man himself, who is a portion of Nature, and in Nature. If man and his powers are not necessarily the highest perfectible reach of Nature for Nature, man can nevertheless rise beyond the limits of his heritage and environment to intervene and redirect the very forces which created him and which push him onward. He sails an unlimited and shoreless sea, his ship swept swiftly by dark and powerful currents, a moribund God for companion, but his hands on the helm or the tiller allow him to become, to some extent, the master of his own fate. In his own world within the world of Nature, man is the arbiter of his own destiny, though he is himself directed by invisible forces. His glory lies in the modicum of purpose or direction which his hands might command. From the biological viewpoint of Sir Julian Huxley, “Man’s most sacred duty and, at the same time his most glorious opportunity, is to promote the maximum fulfillment of the evolutionary process on the earth; and this includes the fullest realization of his own inherent possibilities.”* When Menelaus tells Odysseus that man, and even the gods, must “follow their own road like banked-in streams,” Odysseus exclaims: “I think man’s greatest duty on earth is to fight his fate,/to give no quarter and blot out his written doom./This is how mortal man can even surpass his god!”
In the summer of 1954 in Antibes, when Kazantzakis and I were slowly reading his poem together in Greek for the first time, he was asked to write a “Credo” for a proposed third volume of This I Believe, It contains the last summation which Kazantzakis was to make of his life and work:
From early youth my fundamental struggle and the source of all my joys and sorrows has been the unceasing and pitiless battle within me between the flesh and the spirit. Within me are the most ancient, prehuman dark and lustrous powers, and my spirit is the arena where these two armies have met and fought. I felt that if only one of these two conquered and annihilated the other, I would be lost, because I loved my body and did not want it to vanish, yet I loved my soul and did not want it to decline. I struggled, therefore, to unite in friendship these two antithetical and universal powers until they should realize they were not enemies but co-workers, until they should rejoice so that I also might rejoice with them in their harmony.
This struggle lasted for many years. I tried many different roads by which to reach my salvation: the road of love, of scientific curiosity, of philosophical inquiry, of social rebirth, and finally the difficult and solitary path of poetry. But when I saw that all these led to the Abyss, fear would seize me, and I would turn back and take another road. This wandering and this martyrdom lasted for many years. Finally, in despair, I sought refuge on Athos, the holy mountain of Greece where no woman has ever set foot, and where for a thousand years thousands of monk
s have dedicated their lives to prayer and chastity. There, in the solitude of the Holy Mountain, in an old hermit’s retreat above the sea, I began a new struggle. First of all I exercised my body in obedience to the spirit. For many months I taught it to endure cold, hunger, thirst, sleeplessness, and every privation. Then I turned to the spirit; sunk in painful concentration, I sought to conquer within me the minor passions, the easy virtues, the cheap spiritual joys, the convenient hopes. Finally one night I started up in great joy, for I had seen the red ribbon left behind him in his ascent—within us and in all the universe—by a certain Combatant; I clearly saw his bloody footprints ascending from inorganic matter into life and from life into spirit.
Then suddenly a great light was born within me: the transmutation of matter into spirit. Here was the great secret, the red ribbon followed by the Combatant. Though he had freed himself from inorganic matter and leaped into the living organism of plants, he felt himself smothering, and therefore leaped into the life of animals, continually transmuting more and more matter into spirit. But again he suffocated, then leaped into the contemporary Apeman whom we have named “man” too soon, and now he struggles to escape from the Apeman and to be transmuted truly into Man. I now clearly saw the progress of the Invisible, and suddenly I knew what my duty was to be: to work in harmony together with that Combatant; to transmute, even I, in my own small capacity, matter into spirit, for only then might I try to reach the highest endeavor of man—a harmony with the universe.
I felt deeply, and I was freed. I did not change the world—this I could not do—but I changed the vision with which I looked out upon the world. And since then, I have struggled—at first consciously and with anguish, then bit by bit unconsciously and without tiring—not to do anything which might find itself in disharmony with the rhythm of the Great Combatant. Since then I have felt ashamed to commit any vulgar act, to lie, to be overcome by fears, because I know that I also have a great responsibility in the progress of the world. I work and think now with certainty, for I know that my contribution, because it follows the profound depths of the universe, will not go lost. Even I, a mortal, may work with One who is immortal, and my spirit—as much as is possible—may become more and more immortal. This harmony, which is not at all passive, but an unceasing and renewing reconciliation and co-operation with antithetical powers, has remained for me my freedom and my redemption.
III. THE MAN
Nikos Kazantzakis was born in Herakleion, Crete, on February 18, 1883 and died in Freiburg, Germany, on October 26, 1957, four months before his seventy-fifth birthday. He received his early schooling in his native island and in Naxos, took his degree in law from the University of Athens, then spent five years in travel throughout Europe, mastering five modern languages in addition to Latin and ancient and modern Greek. During various periods in his life he also traveled in Palestine, Egypt, China and Japan, spent two years in Russia, a few months of contemplation on Mount Athos. In 1919 he was appointed Director General of the Ministry of Public Welfare in the government of Venizelos, and in this capacity directed a mission to the Caucasus and South Russia for the transportation and immigration of 150,000 Greeks to Macedonia and Thrace. During the German-Italian occupation of Greece he lived in nearstarvation on the island of Aegina. For a short time in 1946 he acted as Minister of National Education, without portfolio, in the government of Sophoulis, and in 1947 he was appointed Director of Translations from the Classics for UNESCO, but withdrew after a year in order to devote himself exclusively to his literary work, and settled in the ancient Greek city of Antibes (Antipolis) on the French Riviera. He was married twice, first to Galatea Alexíou, then to Helen Samíou. There were no children.
In June of 1957 he wrote me from his home in Antibes: “Again I am taking the road of insanity [that is, of Dionysian ecstasy, of spiritual adventure] which has always remained for me the road toward the highest wisdom.” He was on his way to China on the invitation of the Chinese government. In 1935 he had visited that country and Japan and soon after published a travelogue of his impressions, and though he had now been suffering from lymphoid leukemia for the past few years and was seventy-four years old, he was eager to see the changes opposing ideologies had wrought. From Peking he sent me a card of a bird perched on a blossoming cherry bough, and wrote, “I force my body to obey my soul, and thus I never tire. We shall return to Europe via the North Pole.” In preparation for his visit to Hong Kong, he had inadvertently been given a smallpox inoculation, and as he flew on to Tokyo and then past the Arctic regions on the North Pole route, the vaccination puncture on his right arm developed a deadly infection. Though he passed this immediate peril in a hospital in Copenhagen, and then at the University Clinic in Freiburg, he was unable to resist the subsequent ravages of influenza, and died at 10:20 on the evening of October 26. His last days had been made happy by a visit from the man he most admired in the living world, Albert Schweitzer, who had long proposed him for the Nobel Prize in literature. His body was taken to his birthplace, Herakleion in Crete, and with great national mourning placed in the Martinengo Bastion of the old Venetian Wall which surrounds the city. The grounds will be made into a public park, including a museum housing the furniture of his workshop, his library, and his manuscripts. By one of those astounding coincidences which topple rational thought, yet seem somehow designed by the subconscious will, Kazantzakis in old age had flown to the northernmost extremity of the earth to meet his death there, exactly as his autobiographical hero in the Odyssey had confronted death in Antarctic regions. Thus the two embraced between them the whole world from each of its two extremities, and thus harmony had been preserved in frozen and antipodal balance.
I have never felt so immediately and persistently in the presence of greatness as before him in day after day of close collaboration and discussion when souls are tried, tested, and revealed. In aspect he was arresting, tall and thin, of a bony and ascetic angularity, with shaggy tawny-gray eyebrows, and the only eyes I have ever seen which made credible for me those old clichés “piercing” and “eagle-eyed.” His greatness was lambent and transparent with the simplicity which one always posits for true greatness yet rarely expects to find, a serenity that accepted all and dwelt in a higher tension beyond trivialities. Extremely shy, he dressed simply, ate sparingly, and was by temperament an ascetic. And yet, like Yeats, he had a passionate admiration for violent men of action like Zorba (an actual friend) who reveled in deliriums of flesh and freedom. Like Yeats, also, he belongs to Phase 18 of the Irish poet’s lunar philosophy, the phase of the Antithetical Man (with Dante), for his own life and thought were formed in a double vision of tension between opposites, an explosive conflict which ascended unceasingly upward toward higher and higher spiritual reaches over an abyss of nothingness. Though he ate little, he always described men of voracious appetites; though he was sensitive in his relations with women, his heroes are often brash and bold in their approach; though he delighted in describing grandfathers with their multitudes of great-grandchildren, he was childless after two marriages; though he roamed about the world, he was drawn again and again to a hermit’s retreat; though he loved Greece, and Crete in particular, he lived much of his life abroad; though he had an infinite compassion for humanity in general, he found it difficult to approach individuals or to like many of them; though he admired the self-sacrifice of a Christ or the abnegation of a Buddha, he accepted cruelty, injustice, and barbarity as part of the necessary elements of life.
Much of the ambivalence of his character, as in that of his autobiographical hero, Odysseus, stemmed, I believe, from his endeavor to synthesize these dualities in himself, in his action and his work, to accept all the antinomies in nature which are neither good nor evil, moral nor immoral in themselves, and to fuse them in the fire of a mystical vision which arose, nevertheless, from a realistic view of nature as microcosm and macrocosm both. In the traditionally ambivalent character of Odysseus, amplified and enriched through almost thirty centuries of add
itional accretion and interpretation, Kazantzakis found a sufficiently complex character to depict not only his own temperament but also that of the entire Greek nation for whom Odysseus is still the ideal character, the admired pattern. In an early novel, Toda Raba, composed in 1929, he wrote: “You know that my particular leader is not one of the three leaders of the human spirit; neither Faust, nor Hamlet, nor Don Quixote, but only Don Odysseus . . . ‘I have not the unquenchable thirst of the occidental mind, nor do I sway between yes and no to no end in immobility, nor do I any longer possess the sublimely ludicrous urge of the noble battler of windmills. I am a mariner of Odysseus with heart afire but with mind ruthless and clear; not, however, of that Odysseus who returned to Ithaca and stayed there, but of that other Odysseus who returned, killed his enemies and, stifled in his, native land, put out to sea once more.”
Odysseus is the “man of many turns,” which for Homer probably meant the much-traveled man, for his enemies the man of chameleon duplicity, unstable and unscrupulous, and for his friends the resourceful and versatile man, ready for all emergencies. He is cruel yet compassionate, modest yet boastful, cunning yet straightforward, heavy-handed yet gentle, affectionate yet harsh, aristocratic yet public-spirited, sensual yet ascetic, a man of mixed motives in a constant state of ethical tension. Only such a complex and contradictory character could hope to give the Greeks, from ancient days to the present, a sufficiently satisfying pattern of their lives and aspirations, and this is why his myth is no less living today than it was almost three thousand years ago. Only one of the twelve Olympian deities had a character equally complex—she who in Homer was Odysseus’ constant companion and protector, and for whom the Athenians named their city as a tribute to both their involved temperaments: Athena. Kazantzakis and Odysseus are creatures of double vision, of the third inner eye, of the “Cretan Glance” which, caught between two conflicting currents—one ever ascending toward composition, toward life, toward immortality, and the other ever descending toward decomposition, toward matter, toward death—glimpses the ideal synthesis and yearns for its almost impossible embodiment in life and in work.