Zorba the Greek

Nikos Kazantzakis
Tr. Carl Wildman

A little child had fallen into a well, said the story. There it found a marvelous city, flower gardens, a lake of pure honey, a mountain of rice pudding and multi-colored toys. As I spelled it out, each syllable seemed to take me further into that magic city. Once, at midday, when I had come home from school, I ran into the garden, rushed to the rim of the well beneath the vine arbor and stood fascinated, staring at the smooth black surface of the water. I soon thought I could see the marvelous city, houses and streets, the children and the vine arbor loaded with grapes. I could hold out no longer; I hung my head down, held out my arms and kicked against the ground to push myself over the edge. But at that moment my mother noticed me. She screamed, rushed out and caught me by my waistband, just in time...

Now whatever is this red water, boss, just tell me! An old stock grows branches, and at first there's nothing but a sour bunch of beads hanging down. Time passes, the sun ripens them, they become as sweet as honey, and then they're called grapes. We trample on them; we extract the juice and put it into casks; it ferments on its own, we open it on the feast day of St. John the Drinker, it's become wine! It's a miracle! You drink the red juice and, lo and behold, your souls grows big, too big for the old carcass, it challenges God to a fight. Now tell me, boss, how does it happen?

You can't understand, boss! he said, shrugging his shoulders. I told you I had been in every trade. Once I was a potter. I was mad about that craft. D'you realize what it means to take a lump of mud and make what you will out of it? Ffrr! You turn the wheel and the mud whirls round, as if it were possessed while you stand over it and say: I'm going to make a jug, I'm going to make a plate, I'm going to make a lamp and the devil knows what more! That's what you might call being a man: freedom!

Why don't you laugh? Why d'you look at me like that? That's how I am. There's a devil in me who shouts, and I do what he says. Whenever I feel I'm choking with some emotion, he says: 'Dance!' and I dance. And I feel better! Once, when my little Dimitraki died, in Chalcidice, I got up as I did a moment ago and I danced. The relations and friends who saw me dancing in front of the body rushed up to stop me. 'Zorba has gone mad!' they cried, 'Zorba has gone mad!' but if at that moment I had not danced, I should really have gone mad--from grief. Because it was my first son and he was three years old and I could not bear to lose him. You understand what I'm saying, boss, don't you--or am I talking to myself?

Well, as I was saying, this Hussein Aga was a saintly man. One day he took em on his knee and placed his hand on my head as though he were giving me his blessing. 'Alexis' he said, 'I'm going to tell you a secret. You're too small to understand now, but you'll understand when you are bigger. Listen, little one: neither the seven stories of heaven nor the seven stories of the earth are enough to contain God; but a man's heart can contain him. So be very careful, Alexis--and my my blessing go with you--never wound a man's heart!

My father was a real Palikari. Don't look at me, I'm only a breath of air beside him. I don't come up to his ankles. He was one of those ancient Greeks they always talk about. When he shook your hand he nearly crushed your bones to pulp. I can talk now and then, but my father roared, neighed and sang. There very rarely came a human word out of his mouth.
Well, he had all the vices, but he'd slash them, as you would with a sword. For instance, he smoked like a chimney. One morning he got up and went into the fields to plow. He arrived, leaned on the hedge, pushed his hand into his belt for his tobacco pouch to roll a cigarette before he began to work, took out his pouch and found it was empty. He'd forgotten to fill it before leaving the house.
He foamed with rage, let out a roar, and then bounded away towards the village. His passion for smoking completely unbalanced his reason, you see. But suddenly--I've always said I think a man's a mystery--he stopped, filled with shame, pulled out his pouch and tore it to shreds with his teeth, then stamped it in the ground and spat on it. Filth! Filth! he bellowed. Dirty slut!
And from that hour, until the end of his days, he never put another cigarette between his lips.
That's the way real men behave boss.

See boss, what a cunning creature is woman! She can even twist God round her little finger!

We are little grubs, Zorba, minute grubs on the small leaf of a tremendous tree. This small leaf is the earth. The other leaves are the stars that you see moving at night. We make our way on this little leaf examining it anxiously and carefully. We smell it; it smells good or bad to us. We taste it and find it eatable. We beat on it and it cries out like a living thing.
Some men--the more intrepid ones--reach the edge of the leaf. From there we stretch out, gazing into chaos. We tremble. We guess what a frightening abyss lies beneath us. In the distance we can hear the noise of the other leaves of the tremendous tree, we feel the sap rising from the roots to our leaf and our hearts swell. Ben thus over the awe-inspiring abyss, with all our bodies and all our souls, we tremble with terror. From that moment begins...

A brother tells stories to his younger sister, great stories of marvelous imagination that conceive the world in all the brightest colors. She believes these stories.
A people tell lies to themselves in order to explain the wonders of the universe. The rain is not precipitation but the tears of the gods. The raging storms of the sea are Poseidon's wrath and no function of entropy. They understand these stories and understand their world.
A culture joins together to tell a collective lie to its children and this lie becomes the central story of a great winter festival. The children believe this lie at the pressure of their parents; they are bribed to believe it and is this wrong?
Is it wrong to understand the world in a way that is different from the "factual scientific" understanding that is forced on us now? What is more truthful: that the Narcissus evolved because of its specific environment or that it is a young man turned into a flower because of his pride? Truth doesn't always have to be factual reality. They are not the same. It's a fact that I am composed of atoms and cells and you can read about how all this works in a textbook. It's the truth that there's magic in these bones and you can read about that in a book, too.
Facts like the ones we are so proud of as a nation and culture now are only our temporary understanding of Nature and the world we live in. The truth is not found in these facts. Truth is found in myths and is more permanent.
Do you see your thumb as a miracle or a collision?