Report to Grego
At that point the second secret processing began inside me. By nourishing that seed and watering it with my blood I would make it part of my own vitals, thus subduing it by assimilating it. This was my only hope of release. The seed which entered me as a conqueror had to be united with me, so that both of us might become victors and vanquished.
Words, rhymes, and similes began immediately to run around the intruding seed, to encompass it and nourish it like an embryo. Faint memories revived; submerged joys and sorrows, laughter, gushing conversations all ascended. Our many days together crossed in front of me like graceful white doves, full of gurgles. The memories ascended a story higher than truth, two stories higher than falsehood. Zorba metamorphosed gradually and became a legend.
At night I did not have the courage to go to bed; I felt the seed working away in my sleep. In the night’s hallowed calm I listened intently as it nibbled and nibbled the leaves of my heart of hearts like a silkworm desiring to turn them into silk.
I rambled through Kastro’s narrow streets at night. The ancient memories kept springing out from every corner. I met myself as a child walking all alone and not wanting to play with other children, then as an adolescent promenading with his friends on the Venetian ramparts above the sea—it was the hour of dusk and there was a gentle breeze laden with salt from the sea, jasmine from the neighborhood’s tiny gardens, and perfume from the girls who were promenading too, laughing and taunting us because they longed to have us turn and look at them, whereas we were discussing God and whether or not the soul was immortal. . . . And whenever the moon was full and clear, a deep bewitching intoxication overcame me. The doors and roof tiles of the houses became intoxicated too. Stones, wood, fountains, and bell towers doffed their thick bodies, relieving themselves of the weight which crushed them during the day. Now their souls beamed naked in the moonlight.
The first rains of autumn came. Sky descended to earth; the seeds raised their heads in the furrows and gazed upward rejoicingly. Finding my family home too confining now, I fled all alone to a little deserted house belonging to one of my friends. It stood by the water’s edge, outside the city: a square enclosed courtyard with high walls, containing two lemon trees, a cypress, and several pots of basil and marjoram; a ponderous street door made of three layers of planking like a fortified gate, with a massive unliftable bolt, which to be drawn required both your hands and all your strength. What deep happiness when I did draw it, barred the door, and remained alone with no one able to set foot in my solitude! “I’ll hold you tightly beneath my arm when I enter heaven, and you shall enter with me,” I said to the bolt, looking at it with gratitude. Some will hold the tools they worked with to earn a living, some the lances they fought with, some the pens they wrote with, some will hold their sweethearts by the hand. I shall hold this bolt.
What a pleasure to be alone, to hear the sea sighing beyond your threshold, to have the first rains burst upon the lemon trees and cypresses of your courtyard—and to feel a seed eating you in the very, very middle of your vitals!
Zorba reposed inside me like a chrysalis, swaddled in a hard, transparent shell. He did not move. But I sensed an inscrutable, terribly mysterious process continuing night and day, secretly, noiselessly, inside that mute chrysalis. Its collapsed veins were gradually filling, its desiccated flesh softening—the shell was about to split at any minute near the shoulders, and the immature, curled, still-impotent wings to appear. Stretched inside the chrysalis was a grub which had been swept away by a sudden divine madness and wished to emerge as a butterfly. And I, I heard the first rains, heard the earth crack and receive the downfall, heard the wheat germs drinking and swelling in the ground, heard them throwing out all-powerful green grapples to hook into the soil, afterwards lifting the ground and rising into the light to become wheat and bread for people to eat in order to stay alive and keep God from dying. Listening intently, I heard the spirit which stands by every tiny blade of grass to help it grow and accomplish its duty on earth. Here in my impregnable solitude I sensed that even the most insignificant of God’s creatures—a grain of wheat, a worm, an ant—suddenly recalls its divine origin, is possessed by a God-inspired mania, and wishes to mount step by step in order to touch the Lord; the wheat, worm, or ant to touch Him and stand at His side along with angels and archangels, it too an angel, an archangel.
Having met Zorba when he still cast a shadow on the earth, and knowing that neither his body, nor song, nor even his dance was big enough to contain him, I wondered with great expectation what kind of wild beast would burst forth when its hour came and shatter the transparent swaddling bands which held it immobile now in my bowels. What beast, what insatiable desolation, what unslackening, unhoping flame? If a worm, a good-for-nothing worm, wanted to become a butterfly, I said to myself, what then would a Zorba want to become!
These were unforgettable days of holy meditation. The rains fell, the clouds melted, the sun appeared freshly bathed. The lemon flowers had formed fruit, and the sacred still-green lemons glittered on the trees. The stars rose at night, revolved above my head, and fell in the west. Time ran like immortal water; I felt my head sailing above time and the flood with confidence and assurance, like the Ark, laden with every kind of seed: animals, birds, men, gods. Mobilizing all my memories, retraveling all my travels, bringing back to mind all the great souls to whom I had lighted candles in my life, dispatching wave after wave of my blood to nourish the seed within me, I waited. I fed this seed with the precious honey I had collected from a lifetime of boring into the most fragrant and venomous of flowers. For the first time I tasted the true meaning of paternal love, and what a fountainhead of eternity a son is. Just as the pearl is a sickness and at the same time the oyster’s supreme accomplishment, so too I felt turmoil and fever in my blood, and at the same time a secret message from profound sources that I had arrived—was about to arrive—at the most decisive moment of my life. On the basis of this seed, this son, my fate would be determined.
Autumn passed, winter began. I sauntered in the plowed fields around my hideaway, admiring how patiently the grassless earth retained its own seed and waited with confidence for the coming of spring. I too waited patiently, together with the soil. I felt I had switched sex, as though I were a woman like the earth, nourishing my seed, the Word, and waiting. I said to myself, O if only I can incarnate all my anguishes and hopes in this Word and leave such a son behind me when I open earth’s door to depart!
I recalled an ascetic I had encountered one day on Mount Athos. He was holding a poplar leaf up to the light and looking at it, the tears flowing from his eyes. Surprised, I stopped and asked him, “What do you see in that leaf, holy Father, that makes you cry?”
“I see Christ crucified,” he answered. Then he turned the leaf over and his face beamed with joy.
“What do you see now that makes you so happy?” I asked him this time.
“I see Christ resurrected, my child.”
If only the creator could likewise see all his anguishes and hopes even in the most humble detail of this world, in an insect, a shell, a drop of water, and not only his own anguishes and hopes, but those of the entire cosmos! If only he could see man crucified and man resurrected in every heartbeat, could sense that ants, stars, ghosts, and ideas all issue from the same mother as we do, that we all suffer and all hope the day will come when our eyes will be opened and we shall see that we all are one—and be saved.
I shall never forget those mystical months of waiting. The lemon leaves rustling, a bee flying, the sea which did not grow calm but kept sighing and knocking at my door, a crow passing over the roof of the house—all hurt me and made me cry out, as though my body had been flayed by some god and could not tolerate even a breath of wind.
Until finally one day I could stand it no longer. I had known well enough for years that the only way for me to escape intense pain or joy and to retrieve my freedom was to bewitch this pain or joy with the magic charm of words. In tropical countries an extrem
ely thin, threadlike worm pierces the human skin and eats it. Along comes the exorciser. He plays his long magic flute; the spellbound worm appears, uncurls little by little, and emerges. Such also is the flute of art.
The sunbathed halcyon days of January had arrived, the days which God in his infinite goodness had purposely wedged into the heart of winter so that the poor unfortunate sea birds could lay their eggs with assurance and deposit them on the rocks. One morning during those halcyon days I dove into the sea, swam, worked up heat, came out, and dried myself in the sun. Seldom in my life had I tasted such bodily relief, such spiritual bliss. I returned to the house, took the penholder (this is my flute) and with a gentle shudder, leaned over the paper.
I wrote, I crossed out. I could not find suitable words. Sometimes they were dull and soulless, sometimes indecently gaudy, at other times abstract and full of air, lacking a warm body. I knew what I planned to say when I set out, but the shiftless, unbridled words dragged me elsewhere. My plan burgeoned with rank luxuriance, overflowing the mold in which I had placed it and shamelessly invading more space and time. It changed, changed again; I could not stabilize its countenance. And my soul changed with it, changed again; I could not stabilize it either.
In vain I toiled to find a simple idiom without a patchwork of ornaments, the idiom which would not overload my emotion with riches and deform it. Who was the thirsty Mohammedan mystic who lowered the bucket into a well in order to pull up water and drink? He hauled up the bucket. It was filled with gold. He emptied it. He lowered the bucket again and drew it up. It was filled with silver. He emptied it. “I know you are full of treasures, Lord,” he said. “But just give me some water to drink. I’m thirsty.” He lowered the bucket again, brought up water, and drank. This is how the Word should be—without ornaments.
Realizing that the time still had not arrived, that the secret metamorphosis inside the seed still had not been completed, I stopped.
Once, I remembered, I had detached a chrysalis from the trunk of an olive tree and placed it in my palm. Inside the transparent coating I discerned a living thing. It was moving. The hidden process must have reached its terminus; the future, still-enslaved butterfly was waiting with silent tremors for the sacred hour when it would emerge into the sunlight. It was not in a hurry. Having confidence in the light, the warm air, in God’s eternal law, it was waiting.
But I was in a hurry. I wanted to see the miracle hatch before me as soon as possible, wanted to see how the body surges out of its tomb and shroud to become a soul. Bending over, I began to blow my warm breath over the chrysalis, and behold! a slit soon incised itself on the chrysalis’s back, the entire shroud gradually split from top to bottom, and the immature, bright green butterfly appeared, still tightly locked together, its wings twisted, its legs glued to its abdomen. It squirmed gently and kept coming more and more to life beneath my warm, persistent breath. One wing as pale as a budding poplar leaf disengaged itself from the body and began to palpitate, struggling to unfold along its entire length, but in vain. It stayed half opened, shriveled. Soon the other wing moved as well, toiled in its own right to stretch, was unable to, and remained half unfolded and trembling. I, with a human being’s effrontery, continued to lean over and blow my warm exhalation upon the maimed wings, but they had ceased to move now and had drooped down, as stiff and lifeless as stone.
I felt sick at heart. Because of my hurry, because I had dared to transgress an eternal law, I had killed the butterfly. In my hand I held a carcass. Years and years have passed, but that butterfly’s weightless carcass has weighed heavily on my conscience every since.
Man hurries, God does not. That is why man’s works are uncertain and maimed, while God’s are flawless and sure. My eyes welling with tears, I vowed never to transgress this eternal law again. Like a tree I would be blasted by wind, struck by sun and rain, and would wait with confidence; the long-desired hour of flowering and fruit would come.
But look, I was at that very moment breaking my vow. Though Zorba’s chrysalis still had not matured, I was in a hurry to open its shroud. Ashamed of myself, I tore up everything I had scrawled on the paper and went outside to lie at the edge of the sea.
I remembered something Zorba once said: “I always act as though I were immortal.” This is God’s method, but we mortals should follow it too, not from megalomania and impudence, but from the soul’s invincible yearning for what is above. The attempt to imitate God is our only means to surpass human boundaries, be it only by a hair, be it only for an instant (remember the flying fish). As long as we are imprisoned in our bodies, as long as we are chrysalises, the most precious orders given us by God are: Be patient, meditate, trust.
I watched the sun go down; the deserted island opposite me glowed rosily, happily, like a cheek after a kiss. I heard the small songbirds returning drowsily to go to sleep, tired after a full day’s hunting and singing. Soon the stars would rise to take their places one by one, and the wheel of night would begin to turn. Midnight would come, dawn would come, the sun would assuredly appear, and the wheel of day would commence its round.
A divine rhythm. Seeds in the ground, birds, stars—all obey. Only man lifts his hand in rebellion and wants to transgress the law and convert obedience into freedom. This is why he alone of all God’s creatures is able to sin. To sin—what does that mean? It means to destroy harmony.
Feeling that a trip would give me the patience to wait, I boarded a caique which called at the graceful Aegean isles of Santorin, Naxos, Paros and Mykonos. I have said this and I say it again: One of the greatest pleasures, man is capable of being granted in this world is to sail the Aegean in spingtime when a gentle breeze is blowing. I have never been able to conceive how heaven could be in any way different. What other celestial or mundane joy could be more perfectly in harmony with man’s body and soul? This joy reaches as far as exaltation but it does not go beyond—praise the Lord—and thus the beloved visible world does not vanish. On the contrary, the invisible becomes visible, and what we term God, eternity, and beatitude board our caique and sail along with us. Close your eyes at the horrible hour of death, and if you see Santorin, Naxos, Paros, and Mykonos, you shall enter heaven directly, without the soil’s intervention. What are Abraham’s bosom and the immaterial fetches of the Christian heaven compared to this Greek eternity composed of water, rocks, and a refreshing north wind?
I rejoiced that I was a man, a man and a Greek; thus I could feel the Aegean my own, my own ancestral heritage—instinctively, without the distorting interference of abstract thought—and could sail among the islands from one happiness to the next without overstepping the boundaries of my soul. These divine islands gleamed like a partridge’s downy breast; they frolicked and changed colors at every instant in the shade and sunlight, sometimes dark brown, sometimes sprinkled with gold dust, densely planted with roses in the morning, immaculate lilies at noon, and warm violets at the hour when the sun decides to set.
This honeymoon-like voyage lasted two weeks. When I returned to the little house on the seashore, my mind had settled in place and my heart was beating calmly. Christ, Buddha, and Lenin, my life’s three great and beloved pirates, had not vanished; they were phosphorescing in memory’s crepuscule like decorative hieroglyphics with an exalted significance that has been surpassed.
Not a single intellectual concern had distracted me during the entire course of my journey; not a single dream had come in my sleep to remind me that I had creative agonies to resolve and that I could not resolve them. I saw, heard, and smelled the world with carefree simplicity, as though my soul had become body too, as though it too saw, heard, and smelled the world in a state of well-being.
Who were the two artists of ancient times who competed to see who could paint the visible world most faithfully? “Now I shall prove to you that I am the best,” said the first, showing the other a curtain which he had painted. “Well, draw back the curtain,” said the adversary, “and let us see the picture.” “The curtain is the
picture,” replied the first with a laugh.
During this entire voyage of mine on the Aegean I had sensed with profundity that the curtain is truly the picture. Alas for him who rips the curtain in order to see the picture. He will see nothing but chaos.
I remained plunged in solitude’s austere silence for many additional days. It was spring; I sat beneath the blossoming lemon tree in the courtyard, joyfully turning over in my mind a poem I had heard at Mount Athos: “Sister Almond Tree, speak to me of God.” And the almond tree blossomed.
Truly, the curtain embroidered with blossoms, birds, and men—this must be God. This world is not His vestment, as I once believed; it is God himself. Form and essence are identical. I had returned from my Aegean pilgrimage holding this certainty, this priceless booty. Zorba knew this, but could not say it. He danced it. I thought to myself, If only I can transform this dance into words!
And as I thought this, my mind cleared. I realized that I had been seeking God all those years while never noticing that He was right in front of me, just like the fiancé who thinks he has lost his engagement ring, searches anxiously for it everywhere, and does not find it because he is wearing it on his finger. Solitude, silence, and the Aegean were secretly, compassionately collaborating with me. Time passed above me, it too one of my collaborators, and ripened the seed in my entrails. Together with the birds and stars I yoked myself to the eternal wheel and for the first time in my life, I believe, felt what true liberty is: to place oneself beneath God’s—in other words harmony’s—yoke.
Creation, like love, is a seductive pursuit filled with uncertainty and fluttering heartbeats. Every morning when I went out for this mystical pursuit, my heart throbbed with anguish, curiosity, and a strange satanic arrogance which resembled (I don’t know how or why) deep, untellable humility. For without having this at all in mind, from the very first days I fearfully realized which was the invisible—perhaps nonexistent—bird I was hunting. The mountains were filled with partridge, the passes with turtledoves, the lakes with wild duck. But I, scornfully bypassing all this delicious flying flesh, was hunting the uncatchable bird which from time to time I heard flapping its wings in my heart of hearts, the bird made so far of wings only. I was struggling to give this bird a solid body so that I could catch it.