Our center, grandfather, the center which swept the visible world into its whirl and fought to elevate it to the upper level of valor and responsibility, was the battle with God. Which God? The fierce summit of man’s soul, the summit which we are ceaselessly about to attain and which ceaselessly jumps to its feet and climbs still higher. “Does man battle with God?” some acquaintances asked me sarcastically one day. I answered them, “With whom else do you expect him to battle?” Truly, with whom else?
That was why the whole of our lives was an ascent, grandfather—ascent, precipice, solitude. We set out with many fellow struggles, many ideas, a great escort. But as we ascended and as the summit shifted and became more remote, fellow strugglers, ideas, and hopes kept bidding us farewell; out of breath, they were neither willing nor able to mount higher. We remained alone, our eyes riveted upon the Moving Monad, the shifting summit. We were swayed neither by arrogance nor by the naïve certainty that one day the summit would stand still and we would reach it; nor yet, even if we should reach it, by the belief that there on high we would find happiness, salvation, and paradise. We ascended because the very act of ascending, for us, was happiness, salvation, and paradise.
I marvel at the human soul; no power in heaven and earth is so great. Without being aware of it, we carry omnipotence within us. But we crush our souls beneath a weight of flesh and lard, and die without having learned what we are and what we can accomplish. What other power on earth is able to look the world’s beginning and end straight in the eye without being blinded? In the beginning was not the Word (as is preached by the souls crushed beneath lard and flesh) nor the Act, nor the Creator’s hand filled with life-receiving clay. In the beginning was Fire. And in the end is neither immortality nor recompense, paradise nor the inferno. In the end is Fire. Between these two fires, dear grandfather, we traveled; and we fought, by following Fire’s commandment and working with it, to turn flesh into flame, thought into flame—hope, despair, honor, dishonor, glory, into flame. You went in the lead and I followed. You taught me that our inner flame, contrary to the nature of the flesh, is able to flare up with ever-increasing intensity over the years. That was why (I saw this in you and admired you for it) you became continually fiercer as you aged, continually braver as you arrived ever closer to the abyss. Tossing the bodies of saints, rulers, and monks into the crucible of your glance, you melted them down like metals, purged away their rust, and refined out the pure gold: their soul. What soul? The flame. This you united with the conflagration that engendered us and the conflagration which shall devour us.
The prudent accused us of making the angelic wings excessively large, and of having the audacity to wish to shoot the arrow beyond human frontiers. But we were not the ones who wished to shoot the arrow beyond human frontiers; a devil inside us—let us call him Lucifer, for he brings light—kept urging us on. He it was who wished to overstep the limits in order to go we knew not where. All we knew was: higher. Like Saint George, who carried on his horse’s rump the young princess whom the dragon wished to devour, this devil carried life, the life which was stifled and endangered inside every living thing, and which desired to escape in order to save itself. Monkeys must have felt the momentum of the universe inside them in this same way, urging them to stand on their hind legs, even though the pain made them howl, and to rub a pair of sticks together to produce a spark, even though the other monkeys derided them. This is how ape man was born, how man was born; this, grandfather, is how the indestructible, merciless force kicked against our breasts as well: in order to save itself from man, and continue beyond. Why do you think we writhed and suffered so much among men? “We refuse to go further,” they cried. “Clip your wings, do not shoot the arrow so high. You don’t fear God, don’t listen to reason. Sit down!” But we did not talk, we worked. We worked on our wings, stretched our bow. We ripped open our vitals to let the devil pass.
“I like neither the angels you paint nor the saints,” the Grand Inquisitor of Toledo scolded you one day. “Instead of making people pray, they make them admire. Beauty inserts itself as an obstacle between our souls and God.”
You laughed, thinking tacitly, But I do not want to make people pray. Who told you I wanted to make people pray? . . . You did not speak, however.
And someone else, this time a painter and personal friend, shook his head when he saw “Toledo in the Storm.” “You trample the rules,” he declared. “This is not art. You have overstepped the boundaries of reason and entered the realm of madness.”
You smiled (how was it you did not explode with anger?) and answered him: “Who told you I produce art? I do not produce art, I do not care about beauty. Reason is too constricting for me, and so are the rules. Like the flying fish, I leap out of safe, secure waters and enter a more ethereal atmosphere that is filled with madness.”
You fell silent for a moment and glanced at the Toledo you had painted: wrapped in black clouds, cleft by thunderbolts, with its towers, churches, and palaces which had been delivered from their bodies of stone to emerge from the blackness as phantoms dressed in disquieting splendor. You looked at them and your nostrils began to quiver, inhaling brimstone. After reflecting in silence for a moment, you cried out in pain, digging your ten nails into your breast, “What devil is in me? Who set fire to Toledo? I really do inhale a wind filled with madness and death, I mean filled with freedom.”
The only one able to comprehend the divine frenzy was a poet (no matter if he was also a monk), Father Hortensio Felix Paravicino. He saw the menacing darkness, the savage thunderbolts, the great wings, the saints whose bodies had melted away and become blazing candles, and one day he seized your paint-bespattered hand and kissed it. “You make snow itself burst into flame,” he said. “You have overstepped nature, and the soul remains undecided in its wonderment which of the two—God’s creature or yours—deserves to live.” At the last of these words, his voice began to tremble.
You listened, smiling and unperturbed, to the insults and commendations. If you frequently pretended to be angry, the anger was a superficial storm on your face; the depths beneath remained motionless. Because you were aware of the great secret, you had neither hope, fear, nor vain self-conceit. Men scuffle with those two great phantoms good and evil (who knows, perhaps they are the two aspects of God). The most ignorant say that good and evil are enemies. Others rise one step higher and say that good and evil are allies. Still others, embracing the game of life and death upon this terrestrial crust with an all-encompassing glance, rejoice at the harmony and say: Good and evil are One.
But we, grandfather, are aware of the great secret. We reveal it, and who cares if no one believes! So much the better if they do not. Man is infirm, he needs consolations. If he believed, his blood would run cold. What secret? That this One does not exist.
One day I went to your house in Toledo, grandfather, so that I too could view the saints, apostles, and nobles you painted. How you unburdened them of the weight of the flesh and made them ready to turn to flame. Never in my life had I seen more flaming flames. This is how the flesh is defeated, I reflected, this is how the precious essence is preserved from disintegration, not our feet and hands of clay, not our blond or black hair, but the precious essence which battles inside this sack of skin and which some call soul and others flame.
If you had still been dressed in your flesh, grandfather, I would have brought you some honey, myzíthra, and oranges as gifts from Crete; also Harídhemos, that fine rebecist with the basil behind his ear, to sing you the three mantinádhes you adored:
Luff the helm, embrace your faith come what come may,
Who cares if a project thrive or if it decay!
A job before you, luff and do not fear,
Pay out your youth to it with never a tear.
I am the son of lightning, grandson of thunder’s howl;
At will I flash and thunder, at will I fling down hail.
But you had turned to flame. Where could I find you, how could I see you
, what gift could I bring you to make you remember Crete and rise from the grave? Only flame is able to find favor in your sight. Oh, if only I could turn to flame and join you!
You perched for thirty-seven years upon this ledge which is Toledo. For thirty-seven years you must have stepped onto this terrace where I now stand, and watched the muddy Tagus flow beneath the double-arched Alcántara Bridge, watched it flee, proceed to pour into the ocean and perish. Your mind flowed with it, your life flowed also, proceeded to pour into death and perish. Bitter, rebellious cries rose from your bowels. So far I have done nothing, nothing, you thought to yourself, clenching your fists (you did not sigh, you became angry). I have done nothing. What can the soul accomplish with paints and canvas? It does not suit me to perch here at the end of the earth mixing colors, fooling with a brush, and painting saints and crucified Christs. These decalcomanias do not unburden my soul. The world is narrow, life is narrow, God is narrow; I should have taken up fire—fire, sea, winds, and stones—in order to build the world as I wanted it: equal to my own stature!
The sun began to set, the rooftops turned to gold, the river darkened, the evening star plummeted from the mountain. The lamps had been lighted in your house; your old faithful servant Maria Gomez was setting the table. Jeronima, the dear companion of your sleeping and waking hours, stepped onto the terriace and touched your hand ever so lightly, lest she frighten you. “It is dark now,” she said. “You have worked all day and eaten nothing. Don’t you pity your body? Come . . .”
But you had called a halt now to your creation of the world and had bounded to Crete. Striding over the Cretan mountains, you did not hear the gentle voice, did not feel the white hand. You were not quite twenty years old. The air smelled of thyme. Singing the three mantinádhes you adored, a kerchief with long fringes girding your raven-black hair, a marigold behind your ear, you were going to the celebrated monastery of Vrondissi to paint the Marriage of Cana, which the abbot had commissioned from you.
Your mind was overflowing with blue, crimson, and green paints. The bride and groom were enthroned on high stools decorated with carvings of two-headed eagles. The marriage tables were ready, the guests eating and drinking; the rebecist sat in their midst playing his instrument and singing sprightly marriage songs. Christ was rising—He had drunk, His cheeks were ablaze—and placing a silver florin on the musician’s forehead . . .
Suddenly the beloved voice came to you, as though from far in the distance. You heard it. “I am coming,” you answered. Smiling, you followed the woman who was compassionately returning you to earth. But the Marriage of Cana had luxuriated in your mind, the belled rebec of Crete had tinkled and wailed inside you, and lo, the everyday meal seemed like a wedding feast! You kept two musicians in your employ; you summoned them, O bridegroom, to play the lute and guitar while you ate, so that your humble food and wine could become a marriage feast of Cana. And when you had finished eating, you too rose (you remembered the picture you had painted in your mind) and with lordly generosity placed two golden ducats on the musicians’ foreheads.
For you lived like a lord. You were a lord. Having nothing but scorn for prudence, you squandered all you earned from your art. Friends and enemies alike censured and scolded you. “What do you want with a twenty-four-room house?” they demanded. “What do you want with musicians? Why don’t you condescend to load your icons on your back like all the others, and make the rounds of churches and monasteries to sell them?”
They called you high-nosed, disdainful, freakish. You blazed up in anger if a single word was uttered against you; you flew into a rage when asked how many ducats you expected for one of your paintings. “My paintings are not for sale,” you answered. “They cannot be bought. Works of art like mine are beyond the reach of any purse. I am simply leaving them in pawn with you. When I feel like it, I shall return your ducats and take back my painting.”
“Where are you from?” the judges asked you. “Why did you come to Toledo? Who are you?” But you interrupted them. “I am not obliged to answer,” you said, “and I am not going to answer.” When they did not force you, however, you inscribed your name wide and broad on your paintings, and below it, with magisterial pride, the title CRETAN.
And when that venom-nosed King Philip panicked at the sight of the Saint Maurice you had painted for him, you bit your lips and deigned neither to supplicate nor to take the edge off your colors. Instead, enveloped in flames, you took your wrath, pride, and unyielding art with you and scampered off to Toledo.
It was a great moment. A pure, righteous conscience stood on one tray of the balance, an empire on the other, and it was you, man’s conscience, that tipped the scales. This conscience will be able to stand before the Lord at the Last Judgment and not be judged. It will judge, because human dignity, purity, and valor fill even God with terror.
Forgive me, grandfather, for being unable to control myself. I felt such great admiration for the thrice-noble moment when you strode across the Escorial’s threshold and departed with head held high, leaving the world’s great and small profits scornfully behind you, that I dared to make that moment fast in verse and meter in order to keep it from fleeing. I write my homage in black ink, in red ink, and hang it in the air:
Curled on a ledge beneath the sweltry
blaze, the king—the worm—observes
with lingering gaze the masons
towering his desolate foursquare
coffin all around them. Cell,
palace and tomb, the savage rough-hewn
granite bellows coarse and nude
upon the barren crag. His lathery
mouth was moldering, the unrighteous
judge’s wax-white face and wizened
body slowly decomposing—
when suddenly horn the mountain’s mane
down swoops with joyful shriek a starving
vulture upon the torpid form:
thirty years before, it smelled
the stench. The comely youth, the Cretan,
feels the stalker-bird depart
his mind to pounce upon the monarch.
In the cavern of his ear reverbrates
still the hissing wrath-filled lash
which drove him from the temple of his
dreams: “The King rejects Saint Maurice!”
The air stirred and tingled—flames on
every side; arms and angels;
the breasts catch fire, rapt in God;
the spears are spindling sun-washed lilies;
flowers spring from flame-hot stones;
enamel, ruby, emerald the shields;
lion-like prowls the light and consumes;
in heaven, with their misty stature,
the stalwarts march in file like wraiths in
early gusts. The youth, with vigorous
frenzied fingers, kneads a clod of
ardent Cretan cistus gum,
his hand forever fragrant Noon;
shimmering ait above the stones.
The slender acrite sees a new
creation flashing vaguely in the
light—celestial and barely seen
its form. As an upright wing which spreads
with creaking force, so shakes, immured,
the monastery, and mankind’s ponderous
bastion, the languid body, an azure
window opens toward the sky.
Birds the angels, plummeting to the
reason’s forge; like rosy apples
the king’s black tidings dangle;
from chaste heaven’s garrets the mind-vulture hurtles
mutely down to the Cretan’s brain,
an archangel with a mouthful of fire.
Children pass, like embers after
evening rain, and monks, and virgins,
and lords with sunken cheeks, and mothers
consecrated to their sons: their
gods. His hands are burning to begin.
Vague desires are stifling him; with r />
insatiable span-length bites he measures
out the ethereal canvas in the air.
The paints flow thick and simmer briskly
in his brain before the hand
can seize them. Virile angels plunge,
swarms of meteors burst at the heads.
Like martial flags returning in tatters,
the apostles torch into his mind;
keys they hold, and fires, the beloved
a massive snake-embossèd chalice.
Upon him, bowed, the youth feels God
descend as clumps of fire; he howls,
his body sacrificed upon
the cross. Seething earth. Like a lion’s
tongue, grace divine voraciously
licks the stones. The unborn mass
enwraps his flanks, a briskly vibrant
dance. His fingers spark, and one
by one he lights the tips, heads of
slender flame on doubly man-sized
candles. With otherworldly brilliance,
like a pearly corona of moon,
earth’s trembling upper level beckons him.
“I shall bow out the body: let it crack!
God, a magnet high in the clouds,
draws me to the dance floor thrice-
ethereal. But the King, that venomous
figwort, ejects me from his dreary
henroost; he sees the light and panics.
Damn you! goodbye, and learn, you fleshly
sieve, that art is not submission
and rules, but a demon which smashes the molds.
I leave you to sweep up cunt-hair with your
putrid eunuch daubers.” So he
spoke. Sunward to the granite