Report to Grego Page 2

  Zálongon. A cliff in Epirus, famous in Greek history. It was here, on Dec. 18, 1803, that 57 Greek women chose death rather than capture by the Turks. After hurling their babies over the cliff, they formed a circle and danced until each had leaped to her doom.

  This translation is in many ways a collaboration, and I wish to record here my indebtedness and sincere thanks to my many fellow workers. Above all to my wife, who with her accustomed patience and good humor answered my endless queries. I am also indebted to Helen Kazantzakis, the author’s widow; Nikos Saklambanis of Iraklion, the author’s nephew; Pandelis Prevelakis, who carefully checked my rendering of the Terzina in the Epilogue; Emmanuel Kasdaglis, who with infinite care and dedication prepared Kazantzakis’ original manuscript for publication; Stephen Mavroyiannis, icon painter; Boule Prousali; Lola Sphairopoulou, and various waiters, fishermen and vineyard- keepers of the village of Aghia Triadha. Lastly, I would like to record my thanks here to Professor Kakridís, Kimon Friar, George Sabbides, Mrs. Chatzidakis of the Benaki Museum, Theodora Koumvakali, Alexander Segkopoulos, Evro Lay ton, Dr. and Mrs. Atlas, the Yian- nakoses, Katherine Kakouri, Michael Antonakis, and Jeff Amory, all of whom in one way or another made my stay in Greece more enjoyable than it otherwise would have been.—P.A.B.

  August 28, 1964

  Aghia Triadha, Macedonia

  AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION

  MY Report to Greco is not an autobiography. My personal life has some value, extremely relative, for myself and no one else. The sole value I acknowledge in it was its effort to mount from one step to the next and reach the highest point to which its strength and doggedness could bring it: the summit I arbitrarily named the Cretan Glance.

  Therefore, reader, in these pages you will find the red track made by drops of my blood, the track which marks my journey among men, passions, and ideas. Every man worthy of being called a son of man bears his cross and mounts his Golgotha. Many, indeed most, reach the first or second step, collapse pantingly in the middle of the journey, and do not attain the summit of Golgotha, in other words the summit of their duty: to be crucified, resurrected, and to save their souls. Afraid of crucifixion, they grow fainthearted; they do not know that the cross is the only path to resurrection. There is no other path.

  The decisive steps in my ascent were four, and each bears a sacred name: Christ, Buddha, Lenin, Odysseus. This bloody journey from each of these great souls to the next is what I shall struggle to mark out in this Itinerary, now that the sun has begun to set—the journey of a man with his heart in his mouth, ascending the rough, unaccommodating mountain of his destiny. My entire soul is a cry, and all my work the commentary on that cry.

  During my entire life one word always tormented and scourged me, the word ascent. Here, mixing truth with fancy, I should like to represent this ascent, together with the red footprints I left as I mounted. I am anxious to finish quickly, before I don the “black helmet” and return to dust, because this bloody track will be the only trace left by my passage on earth. Whatever I wrote or did was written or performed upon water, and has perished.

  I call upon my memory to remember, I assemble my life from the air, place myself soldier-like before the general, and make my Report to Greco. For Greco is kneaded from the same Cretan soil as I, and is able to understand me better than all the strivers of past or present. Did he not leave the same red track upon the stones?

  THREE KINDS OF SOULS, THREE PRAYERS:

  1] I AM A BOW IN YOUR HANDS, LORD. DRAW ME, LEST I ROT.

  2] DO NOT OVERDRAW ME, LORD. I SHALL BREAK.

  3] OVERDRAW ME, LORD, AND WHO CARES IF I BREAK!

  PROLOGUE

  I COLLECT MY TOOLS: sight, smell, touch, taste, hearing, intellect. Night has fallen, the day’s work is done. I return like a mole to my home, the ground. Not because I am tired and cannot work. I am not tired. But the sun has set.

  The sun has set, the hills are dim. The mountain ranges of my mind still retain a little light at their summits, but the sacred night is bearing down; it is rising from the earth, descending from the heavens. The light has vowed not to surrender, but it knows there is no salvation. It will not surrender, but it will expire.

  I cast a final glance around me. To whom should I say farewell? To what should I say farewell? Mountains, the sea, the grape-laden trellis over my balcony? Virtue, sin? Refreshing water? . . . Futile, futile! All these will descend with me to the grave.

  To whom should I confide my joys and sorrows—youth’s quixotic, mystic yearnings, the harsh clash later with God and men, and finally the savage pride of old age, which burns but refuses until the death to turn to ashes? To whom should I relate how many times I slipped and fell as I clambered on all fours up God’s rough, unaccommodating ascent, how many times I rose, covered with blood, and began once more to ascend? Where can I find an unyielding soul of myriad wounds like my own, a soul to hear my confession?

  Compassionately, tranquilly, I squeeze a clod of Cretan soil in my palm. I have kept this soil with me always, during all my wanderings, pressing it in my palm at times of great anguish and receiving strength, great strength, as though from pressing the hand of a dearly loved friend. But now that the sun has set and the day’s work is done, what can I do with strength? I need it no longer. I hold this Cretan soil and squeeze it with ineffable joy, tenderness, and gratitude, as though in my hand I were squeezing the breast of a woman I loved and bidding it farewell. This soil I was everlastingly; this soil I shall be everlastingly. O fierce clay of Crete, the moment when you were twirled and fashioned into a man of struggle has slipped by as though in a single flash.

  What struggle was in that handful of clay, what anguish, what pursuit of the invisible man-eating beast, what dangerous forces both celestial and satanic! It was kneaded with blood, sweat, and tears; it became mud, became a man, and began the ascent to reach—To reach what? It clambered pantingly up God’s dark bulk, extended its arms and groped, groped in an effort to find His face.

  And when in these very last years this man sensed in his desperation that the dark bulk did not have a face, what new struggle, all impudence and terror, he underwent to hew this unwrought summit and give it a face—his own!

  But now the day’s work is done; I collect my tools. Let other clods of soil come to continue the struggle. We mortals are the immortals’ work battalion. Our blood is red coral, and we build an island over the abyss.

  God is being built. I too have applied my tiny red pebble, a drop of blood, to give Him solidity lest He perish—so that He might give me solidity lest I perish. I have done my duty.

  Farewell!

  Extending my hand, I grasp earth’s latch to open the door and leave, but I hesitate on the luminous threshold just a little while longer. My eyes, my ears, my bowels find it difficult, terribly difficult, to tear themselves away from the world’s stones and grass. A man can tell himself he is satisfied and peaceful; he can say he has no more wants, that he has fulfilled his duty and is ready to leave. But the heart resists. Clutching the stones and grass, it implores, “Stay a little!”

  I fight to console my heart, to reconcile it to declaring the Yes freely. We must leave the earth not like scourged, tearful slaves, but like kings who rise from table with no further wants, after having eaten and drunk to the full. The heart, however, still beats inside the chest and resists, crying, “Stay a little!”

  Staying, I throw a final glance at the light; it too is resisting and wrestling, just like man’s heart. Clouds have covered the sky, a warm drizzle falls upon my lips, the earth is redolent. A sweet, seductive voice rises from the soil: “Come . . . come . . . come . . .”

  The drizzle has thickened. The first night bird sighs; its pain, in the wetted air, tumbles down ever so sweetly from the benighted foliage. Peace, great sweetness. No one in the house . . . Outside, the thirsty meadows were drinking the first autumn rains with gratitude and mute well-being. The earth, like an infant, had lifted itself up toward the sky in order to suckle.
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br />   I closed my eyes and fell asleep, holding the clod of Cretan soil, as always, in my palm. I fell asleep and had a dream. It seemed that day was breaking. The morning star hovered above me, and I, certain it was about to fall upon my head, trembled and ran, ran all alone through the arid, desolate mountains. Far in the east the sun appeared. It was not the sun, it was a bronze roasting tray filled with burning coals. The air began to seethe. From time to time an ash-gray partridge darted out from a ledge, beat its wings, and cackled, mocking me with guffaws. A crow, the moment it saw me, flew up from a declivity on the mountain. It had doubtlessly been awaiting my appearance, and it followed behind me, bursting with laughter. Bending down angrily, I picked up a stone to hurl at it. But the crow had changed body, had become a little old man who was smiling at me.

  Terror-stricken, I began to run again. The mountains whirled and I whirled with them, the circles continually contracting. Dizziness overcame me. The mountains pranced around me, and suddenly I felt that they were not mountains but the fossil remains of an antediluvian cerebrum, and that high above me, on my right, an immense cross was embedded in a boulder, with a monstrous bronze serpent crucified upon it.

  A lightning flash tore across my mind, illuminating the mountains around me. I saw. I had entered the sinuous, terrifying ravine which the Hebrews, with Jehovah in the lead, had taken thousands of years earlier in their flight from the rich, prosperous land of Pharaoh. This ravine constituted the fiery smithy where the race of Israel, hungering, thirsting, blaspheming, was hammered out.

  I was possessed by fear, fear and great joy. Leaning against a boulder so that my mind’s whirling might subside, I closed my eyes. All at once everything around me vanished, and a Greek coast line stretched before me: dark indigo-blue sea, red crags, and between the crags the squat ingress to a pitch-dark cave. A hand bounded out of the air and wedged a lighted torch into my fist. I understood the command. Crossing myself, I slipped into the cave.

  I wandered and wandered, sloshing through frozen black water. Blue stalactites hung damply above my head; huge stone phalli rose from the ground, flashing and laughing in the torch’s glare. This cave had been the scabbard of a large river which, changing course over the centuries, had abandoned it and left it empty.

  The bronze serpent hissed angrily. Opening my eyes, I saw the mountains, ravine, and cliffs again. My dizziness had abated. Everything drew to a standstill and filled with light. I understood: Jehovah, in the same way, had tunneled out a passage in the blazing ranges surrounding me. I had entered God’s terrifying scabbard and was following—stepping in—His tracks.

  “This is the road,” I cried in my dream, “this is man’s road. The only road there is!”

  And as these audacious words flew from my lips, a whirlwind wrapped me round, fierce wings lifted me, and I suddenly found myself at the summit of God-trodden Sinai. The air smelled of brimstone, and my lips tingled as though pricked by numberless invisible sparks. I raised my eyelids. Never had my eyes, never my entrails, enjoyed a sight so cruelly inhuman and so completely in harmony with my heart—waterless, treeless, without a human being, without hope. Here the soul of a proud or despairing man could find ultimate bliss.

  I glanced at the boulder on which I was standing. Two deep cavities were gouged out of the granite; they must have been the footprints of the horned prophet who waited for the famished Lion to appear. Had He not commanded the prophet to wait here on Sinai’s peak? He had waited.

  I waited too. Leaning over the precipice, I listened intently. Suddenly I heard the muffled thunder of footsteps far, very far, in the distance. Someone was approaching; the mountains shook. My nostrils began to quiver. The air all about smelled like the head goat that leads the flock. “He is coming, He is coming,” I murmured, tightly girding my loins. I was making myself ready to fight.

  Oh, how I had yearned for that moment when I would confront the ravenous beast of the celestial jungle—confront Him face to face, without the brazen visible world intervening and leading me astray! When I would confront the Invisible, the Insatiable, the simple-hearted Father who devours His children and whose lips, beard, and nails drip with blood.

  I would speak to Him boldly, tell him of man’s suffering and the suffering of bird, tree, and rock. We were all resolute in our desire not to die. In my hand I held a petition signed by all the trees, birds, beasts, and humans: “Father, we do not want you to eat us!” I would give Him this petition, I would not be afraid.

  I talked and implored in this way, girding my loins and trembling.

  And while I waited, the stones seemed to shift. I heard great breaths.

  “Behold Him!” I murmured. “He has come!”

  I turned with a shudder. But it was not Jehovah. It was not Jehovah, it was you, grandfather, from the beloved soil of Crete. You stood before me, a stern nobleman, with your small snow-white goatee, dry compressed lips, your ecstatic glance so filled with flames and wings. And roots of thyme were tangled in your hair.

  You looked at me, and as you looked at me I felt that this world was a cloud charged with thunderbolts and wind, man’s soul a cloud charged with thunderbolts and wind, that God puffs above them, and that salvation does not exist.

  Lifting my eyes, I glanced at you. I was about to ask, Grandfather, is it true that salvation does not exist? But my tongue had stuck to my throat. I was about to go near you, but my knees gave way beneath me.

  At that point you held out your hand as if I were drowning and you wished to save me.

  I clutched it avidly. It was spattered with multicolored paints. You seemed to be painting still. The hand was burning. I gained strength and momentum by touching it, and was able to speak.

  “Give me a command, beloved grandfather.”

  Smiling, you placed your hand upon my head. It was not a hand, it was multicolored fire. The flame suffused my mind to the very roots.

  “Reach what you can, my child.”

  Your voice was grave and dark, as though issuing from the deep larynx of the earth.

  It reached the roots of my mind, but my heart remained unshaken.

  “Grandfather,” I called more loudly now, “give me a more difficult, more Cretan command.”

  Hardly had I finished speaking when, all at once, a hissing flame cleaved the air. The indomitable ancestor with the thyme roots tangled in his locks vanished from my sight; a cry was left on Sinai’s peak, an upright cry full of command, and the air trembled:

  “Reach what you cannot!”

  I awoke with a terrified start. Day had already begun. I rose, went to the French doors, and issued onto the balcony with the grape-laden trellis. The rain had abated now, the stones were gleaming and laughing, the leaves on the trees were weighted with tears.

  “Reach what you cannot!”

  It was your voice. No one else in the world could have uttered such a masculine command—only you, insatiable grandfather! Are you not the desperate, unyielding general of my militant race? Are we not the wounded and starving, the numskulls and pigheads who left affluence and certainty behind us in order to assault the frontiers, following your lead, and smash them?

  God is the most resplendent face of despair, the most resplendent face of hope. You are pushing me beyond hope and despair, grandfather, beyond the age-old frontiers. Where? I gaze around me, I gaze inside me. Virtue has gone mad, geometry and matter have gone mad. The law-giving mind must come again to establish a new order, new laws. The world must become a richer harmony.

  This is what you want; this is where you are pushing me, where you have always pushed me. I heard your command day and night. I fought as well as I could to reach what I could not. This I had set as my duty. Whether I succeeded or not is up to you to tell me. I stand erect before you, and wait.

  General, the battle draws to a close and I make my report. This is where and how I fought. I fell wounded, lost heart, but did not desert. Though my teeth clattered from fear, I bound my forehead tightly with a red handkerchief to hid
e the blood, and ran to the assault.

  Before you I shall pluck out the precious feathers of my jackdaw soul, one by one, until it remains a tiny clod of earth kneaded with blood, sweat, and tears. I shall relate my struggle to you—in order to unburden myself. I shall cast off virtue, shame, and truth—in order to unburden myself. My soul resembles your creation “Toledo in the Storm”; girded by yellow thunderbolts and oppressive black clouds, fighting a desperate, unbending battle against both light and darkness. You will see my soul, will weigh it between your lanceolate eyebrows, and will judge. Do you remember the grave Cretan saying, “Return where you have failed, leave where you have succeeded”? If I failed, I shall return to the assault though but a single hour of life remains to me. If I succeeded, I shall open the earth so that I may come and recline at your side.

  Listen, therefore, to my report, general, and judge. Listen to my life, grandfather, and if I fought with you, if I fell wounded and allowed no one to learn of my suffering, if I never turned my back to the enemy:

  Give me your blessing!

  1

  ANCESTORS

  I LOOK DOWN into myself and shudder. On my father’s side my ancestors were bloodthirsty pirates on water, warrior chieftains on land, fearing neither God nor man; on my mother’s, drab, goodly peasants who bowed trustfully over the soil the entire day, sowed, waited with confidence for rain and sun, reaped, and in the evening seated themselves on the stone bench in front of their homes, folded their arms, and placed their hopes in God.

  Fire and soil. How could I harmonize these two militant ancestors inside me?

  I felt this was my duty, my sole duty: to reconcile the irreconcilables, to draw the thick ancestral darkness out of my loins and transform it, to the best of my ability, into light.

  Is not God’s method the same? Do not we have a duty to apply this method, following in His footsteps? Our lifetime is a brief flash, but sufficient.